The Mulder Files
by DrTaylor
Summary: I'm getting the impression that Firestarter was not a big hit in the U.K.
1. Pilot

This? Not mine. Just so we're clear.

Before I begin, I'd like to explain where this story came from and why I've spent so long on it.

This story was an idea that popped into my head while I was in the midst of writing my epic masterpiece/first attempt at fanfic _Abracadabra_ (look it up - it came out good with the exception of the little chapter that wouldn't.) Anyway, I was writing this epic 28 chapter monstrosity and I was _tired_, so what happened? I decided that someone should really tell the entire story of the X-Files from Mulder's POV. Because that's a reasonable goal.

I quickly discovered that writing two multi-chapter fics was biting off more than I could chew. A lot more. _The Mulder Files_ was soon all but abandoned, and _Abracadabra_ got finished. And then I started to miss my story, so I went back and looked it over. Yeah, it sucked. There was only one thing to do - I started the whole thing over.

The plan is to leave the original chapters intact and go back and replace them as I work my way through. At this present rate, the story should be completed at roughly the time I pay off my student loans, which you'll notice is sometime after 12/22/12. Sorry 'bout that. Hopefully Mulder and Scully will prevent colonization and we'll be able to see how it ends - and what Mulder's thinking when it happens.

* * *

I don't want a partner.

It's not that I have anything against Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully, MD. Yet. It's just that... well...

I don't want a partner.

This must be some sort of punishment – like my whole cursed life has been. Born on Friday, October 13 and then it's been all downhill from there. I haven't been on one single date since Diana left me. Samantha is still gone Who Knows Where, and the Close Encounters director's cut was on at the same time as my baseball special last night. Mom's been begging me to come visit too, and right after I got off the phone with her, the memo came.

Agent Mulder:

Due to the unorthodox nature of your work, a partner is being assigned to study your methods in the X-Files division and evaluate the resources to be allocated to you. Please expect Special Agent Dana Scully tomorrow at ten o'clock.

Assistant Director Scott Blevins

Now, that's not what the memo actually says, of course. It's just bureaucratese for:

Agent Embarrassment:

We're sending someone to spy on you so we have an excuse to shut your little pet project down.

Don't be late!

Your Boss

So of course I went and looked her up. M.D, Bachelor's in physics, college thesis on Einstein's Twin Paradox. Intelligent, driven, and loyal. Navy brat. No husband or kids, currently doing autopsies at Quantico.

Shit, in other words. I'm scared. I can read a file, after all. I _am _a profiler. Logical minded, she'll be. Focused on fact, not imagination. Unbending and totally loyal to her government, the way she was raised.

I should look on the bright side. At least they can't be holding her firstborn hostage to make her do what they want.

My only card to play is that she's also devoted to her career, so I can minimize the time she'll spend here. Get her to request transfer before she ruins me by pointing out as much as possible how bad the X-Files will look on her resume.

Knock, knock.

Well, there goes that.

I'd kind of hoped she'd just call. Oh well, maybe I can get her out of here as soon as possible. "Sorry, nobody down here but the FBI's most unwanted." Please go away, just go away...

The door opens.

I bury my nose in the slide projector and pray she won't judge me on the merits of my poster alone. Or maybe that she will. Instead, she says nothing, and I admit that my curiosity gets the better of me, so I look up. She's cute. I didn't just think that.

"Agent Mulder. I'm Dana Scully, I've been assigned to work with you."

I get to my feet, and we shake hands. She has a very firm grip, of course. At least she's not openly showing contempt for me.** "**Oh, isn't it nice to be suddenly so highly regarded? So, who did you tick off to get stuck with this detail, Scully?"

I know she didn't tick off anyone, of course. She's not that type. "Actually, I'm looking forward to working with you. I've heard a lot about you."

You're kidding. She's a fan? Is that of my work when Spooky was still a term of endearment? "Oh, really? I was under the impression... that you were sent to spy on me." I try to inject as much creepiness into my voice as I can while smiling pleasantly. It's not easy and I gain a new respect for serial killers.

"If you have any doubt about my qualifications or credentials," she begins, but I cut her off by pulling her file out from under the telephone.

"You're a medical doctor, you teach at the academy. You did your undergraduate degree in physics." I look at the paper, but I'm really reciting from memory. ""Einstein's Twin Paradox, A New Interpretation. Dana Scully Senior Thesis." Now that's a credential, rewriting Einstein."

"Did you bother to read it?"

What else would I do? "I did. I liked it." But it won't help. I pop the slides in the slide projector. "It's just that in most of my work, the laws of physics rarely seems to apply." As far as I can tell anyway. Keeping in mind that I'm a psychologist. She glares at me, so I decide to stop bashing her major and get on with the briefing I'm gonna have to give her if she's gonna pretend to be my partner. "Maybe I can get your medical opinion on this, though." She stops glaring and I turn on the slideshow and there's Karen Swenson on the screen. Poor kid. "Orey-gone female, age twenty-one, no explainable cause of death. Autopsy shows nothing. Zip." She's lived all over, and I bet she knows the pronunciation of Oregon, so I'm hoping she's one of those people who's really annoyed when you say it wrong. I change the slide to show the two bumps on Karen's back. "There are, however, these two distinct marks on her lower back. Doctor Scully, can you ID these marks?"

She frowns at the screen. "Needle punctures, maybe. An animal bite. Electrocution of some kind."

Not needle punctures, I already know from the file. An animal would have to have a very flexible jaw. Electrocution... I hadn't actually considered. Damn her. She walks up to the viewscreen and frowns at the picture. I change the slide to the molecular diagram.

"How's your chemistry? This is the substance found in the surrounding tissue."

"It's organic. I don't know, is it some kind of synthetic protein?" Synthetic protein was the lab's guess.

"Beats me, I've never seen it before either." Before this case, I mean. "But here it is again in Sturgis, South Dakota," I add, showing her the kid that vanished for six months and was found facedown ten feet from where he vanished, "And again in Shamrock, Texas." The idiot who named a town Shamrock is right up there with the person who decided "Fox" was a good name for a kid in my book.

"Do you have a theory?"

"I have plenty of theories," I reply mysteriously, crossing the room to stand next to her, "Maybe what you can explain to me is why it's bureau policy to label these cases as "unexplained phenomenon" and ignore them." I switch to my eerie voice. "Do you believe in the existence of extraterrestrials?"

"Logically, I would have to say no."

Naturally.

"Given the distances needed to travel from the far reaches of space, the energy requirements would exceed a spacecraft's capabilties -"

Typical. "Coventional wisdom," I tell her. "You know this Oregon female? She's the fourth person in her graduating class to die under mysterious circumstances. Now, when convention and science offer us no answers, might we not finally turn to the fantastic as a plausibility?"

She's gonna run away. Maybe not right now, but there's no way she can keep this up forever. But it won't be now. I can tell, because she blows into full rant mode.

"The girl obviously died of something. If it was natural causes, it's plausible that there was something missed in the post-mortem. If she was murdered, it's plausible there was a sloppy investigation. What I find fantastic is any notion that there are answers beyond the realm of science. The answers are there. You just have to know where to look."

I like it. And you know why I like it? Because all I have to do is get her really frustrated with not finding anything useful and she'll go away. " That's why they put the "I" in "F.B.I." See you tomorrow morning, Scully, bright and early." I sit back down at the desk. "We leave for the very plausible state of Oregon at eight A.M."

* * *

I kind of hoped she'd miss the flight, since I didn't give her any details about it, but she found me at the airport curb. I manage to restrict the conversation to the utterly mundane weather and therefore it stagnates.

I hate spies.

Once we've made it on the plane, Scully's true nature as a nervous flier shows itself. During the takeoff she clings, white-knuckled to the seat and an idea creeps into the back of my brain.

I am not a nervous flier. Turbulence doesn't even bug me one bit. So if I were to just... play that up a little, shall we say, maybe she'll decide we're totally incompatible as partners. So as soon as the seatbelt light flicks off (no sense in annoying the flight attendants) I stretch out, lying across the empty seats on either side of me.

Scully ignores me.

I pull out the headphones in my pocket and plug them into my Walkman. She pulls out the casefiles and starts reading. And we stay that way for two hours until we land for our stopover. And after another white-knuckled takeoff, we stay that way again. In fact, it goes on for four hours.

God, I'm bored. This plan may not be working as well as I hoped, and I'm seriously considering becoming the Annoying Talkative Seatmate -

Bump.

The loudspeaker comes on. "I would like to ask all passengers to fasten their seatbelts, as we're about to make our descent..." the pilot begins, but instead the plane begins to shake. I mean really shake. There's screaming, there's chaos, and there's Scully gripping her seat so hard I think the thing is gonna start protesting any second – inanimate object or no. I can hear objects flying behind me, the plane is shaking so hard. When it stops, she breathes a sigh of relief and my chance is nigh.

"This must be the place," I tell her, and ignore the dirty look she sends my way.

* * *

Once the car is good and rented, we start on the drive to the Oregon coast. Bellefleur is located just south of Astoria, Oregon, so the trip should take about two hours, depending on how lost we get. There don't seem to be any road signs to point us there, at least until we actually pull into the city. And the whole way there, it's just a replay of the plane ride. Oh dear God, I can't take this much longer. The silence was a really stupid idea.

Also, I'm about to get my ass kicked and I know it. I've been doing some thinking, and I remembered that Oregon has a fair number of UFO sightings – they even have a UFO festival in McMinville. And there is something about this case. The way nothing adds up practically screams "otherworldly". So I know – there are aliens here. They have to be here.

Of course, I'm pretty sure Samantha isn't with them, but that's not important right now. I just want to prove that part of my story is true. Is that too much to ask? So I'll just have to keep my eyes open for anything that might pan out to be a sign of alien activity and record it accordingly. Good thing I remembered the spray paint.

"You didn't mention yesterday, this case has already been investigated."

She speaks! I try to pretend this isn't an amazing occurrence. "Yeah, the FBI got involved after the first three deaths when local authorities failed to turn up any evidence. Our boys came out here, spent a week, enjoyed the local salmon which, with a little lemon twist, is just to die for, if you'll pardon the expression. Without explanation, they were called back in. The case was reclassified and buried in the X-Files, till I dug it up last week."

"And you found something they didn't."

Who cares what I found, really? I want to know what she sees. "Mmm."

"The autopsy reports of the first three victims, show no unidentified marks or tissue samples. But those reports were signed by a different medical examiner than the latest victim."

I never actually noticed that. "That's pretty good, Scully."

"Better than you expected or better that you hoped?"

Better than... just better. I can't deny that I hoped she'd suck as an investigator – that would make my life easier. But I expected her to be smart. Too damn smart. "Well... I'll let you know when we get past the easy part."

She laughs and I feel better about this whole partner thing. "Is the medical examiner a suspect?"

Everyone's a suspect. "We won't know that until we do a little gravedigging. I've arranged to exhume one of the other victims' bodies to see if we can get a tissue sample to match the girl's. You're not squeamish about that kind of thing, are ya?" If she faints it will only work to my advantage.

"I don't know. I've never had the pleasure."

And then the radio goes nuts. It wasn't even on, but it is now, and changing its own channels. I fumble for the off switch, but then the clock goes nuts too. The radio starts screaming and I remember that guy in Arizona that saw the flying disc after his CB radio recorded a screeching sound, so I begin scanning the sky for flying discs.

"What's going on?" Scully asks me, but I don't have an answer, so I just pull over and mark the spot. A little spray paint, no biggie (unless you count the look on Scully's face that says I'm in for a world of hurt when her report gets turned in). "What the hell was that about?" she asks.

I don't think an explanation about flying discs would help right now. "Oh, you know... probably nothing," I tell her as I climb back in the car. It's probably nothing anyway.

And the silence returns.

* * *

By the time we get to the cemetery, I've decided the silence isn't as annoying as it was on the plane. When I pull up at the curb outside the cemetery, though, I'm still a little frustrated, for an entirely different reason. We're not supposed to work well together. That's not in the plan.

They're all set with the crane and the required people from the county waiting for us to come desecrate the grave of one Ray Soames. One of the waiting men walks over to us when we get out of the car and shakes our hands. "Mister Mulder, John Truitt, County Coroner's Office."

I don't care. Just another local official. "Yeah, hi." We shake hands. "This is Agent Scully," I add, remembering that I now have to introduce her too. She and Truitt greet each other, which I don't care about, and then nothing happens. "How soon can we get started?" I ask Truitt, while Scully greets his assistant.

"We're ready to go."

"Oh great."

"Okay, Vinnie!" he shouts up the hill to the guy sitting in the crane.

We head uphill toward the grave. "Were you able to arrange for a, uh... an examination facility?" I ask Truitt, hoping that since I brought my own coroner I don't have to use his.

"I think we got something for you -" he begins, but he's cut off when a man pulls up behind us and starts yelling. "Excuse me!"

Here we go.

"Excuse me!"

He starts up the hill but has to turn around to put his daughter back in the car and then heads up the hill again. "I just don't know who you people think you are. You just think you can come up here, and do whatever you damn well please, don't you?"

I'm guessing victim's family. "I'm sorry, you are..?"

"I'm Doctor Jay Nemman. I'm county medical examiner."

Coroner? Oh, like he's never exhumed anyone himself! "Surely, you must have been informed of our intentions to come up here."

"No, uh, no. We've been away."

Mystery solved. "Well, that answers the question that we had. Why you hadn't done the recent autopsy on Karen Swenson. You're aware of the tissue sample that was taken from the girl's body."

The effect of these words is farily entertaining. "Wha... wha... what is the insinuation here? Are you saying that I missed something in those other kids' exams?"

"We're not insinuating anything, sir," says Scully in a very calming voice.

"Wait a minute," he says, and the rest of them start to head back up the hill but Nemman reaches out to grab me. "Wait a minute, see, well I think you are. And if you're making an accusation, then you'd better have something to back it up."

"Daddy, please, let's just go home." His daughter is not staying in the car. She's standing in the street, pleading. "Let's go home, please."

Nemman shoots me one more glare before he climbs back in the car.

"Guy obviously needed a longer vacation," I tell Scully, who sighs.

We head back up to the grave, Scully reading Ray's file as the hole gets deeper. "Ray Soames was the third victim. After graduating high school, he spent time in a state mental hospital treated for post-adolescent schizophrenia."

I know this part. "Soames actually confessed to the first two murders. He pleaded to be locked up but he couldn't produce any evidence that he committed the crimes. Did you happen to read the cause of death?"

"Exposure. His body was found in the woods after escaping the hospital." She says this like it's totally logical.

"Missing for only seven hours in July. How does a twenty-year-old boy die of exposure on a warm summers night in Oregon, Doctor Scully?"

The coffin is pulled out of the ground before she has to respond. It rises into the air on a crane, but suddenly...

"Look out!"

It goes rolling down the hill and is stopped by a giant headstone! We all follow it and when we get there it's cracked open a little. Like destiny.

So I lift the lid. Truitt tries to stop me, of course. "This isn't official procedure."

Which part? "Really?"

I keep opening it. The body is an alien. Short, grayish, and big eye sockets. There are gasps behind me and Scully kneels next to me. She doesn't gasp.

"It's probably a safe bet Ray Soames never made the varsity basketball team," I tell her.

It's an alien body. I turn to Truitt. "Seal this up, right now! Nobody sees or touches this. Nobody!"

Truitt slams it shut.

* * *

I have to wait in the hallway for an hour before Scully goes in to examine the body. When I finally get inside I'm about to jump out of my skin. And then I get another good look at it and I know I'm right. Good thing I remembered the camera too.

I've finally got my proof.

It's an alien

Click!

I found proof.

Click!

I'd better call the gunmen.

Click!

Scully can't discredit me now.

Click!

She ignores the clicking of the camera in my hands. Can't stand for that. "This is amazing, Scully. You know what this could mean? It's almost too big to even comprehend."

She starts talking into her tape recorder. "Subject is a hundred and fifty-six centimeters in length, weighing fifty-two pounds in extremis. Corpse is in advance stages of decay and desiccation. Distinguishing features include large ocular cavities, oblate cranium... indicates subject is not human. Could you point that flash away from me, please?"

Oh. I guess she did notice.

It's still an alien, though, right? "If it's not human, what is it?"

"It's mammalian. My guess is it's a chimpanzee or something from the ape family, possibly an orangutan."

And that makes no sense. "Buried in the city cemetery in Ray Soames' grave? Try telling that to the good townsfolk or to Ray Soames' family. I want tissue samples and x-rays. I'd like blood type and toxicology and a full genetic work-up."

"You're serious?"

We stare at each other. "What we can't do here, we'll order to go."

"You don't honestly believe this is some kind of an extraterrestrial? This is somebody's sick joke."

Fine. Prove it. I want to prove it. "We can do those x-rays here, can't we? Is there any reason we can't do them right now? I'm not crazy, Scully. I have the same doubts you do."

Okay, well, I sort of do.

* * *

We finally manage to check into a motel about midnight. I tried to go to sleep, but who can sleep when they've found an alien corpse in a city cemetery? I throw on my sweats and head out the door and make it half a block before I realize that I really should at least try to pretend to be nice so I head back and knock on Scully's door.

"Who is it?"

"Steven Spielberg," I reply, wondering if she's even _seen_ Close Encounters.

She opens the door in her pajamas. No wonder, this time of night. "I'm way too wired. I'm going for a run, you want to come?"

"Pass."

She's got all the evidence spread over a table. You figure out what that little thing up Ray Soames' nose is yet?"

"No," she yawns, "and I'm not losing any sleep over it. Good night."

* * *

That was step one. Step two is to look into Ray and figure out why no one ever noticed he was an alien. His family's moved away, so the place to start is his doctor, a man named Noah Glass.

Doctor Glass is pretty forthcoming about Ray, which makes me think he has nothing to hide. "Ray Soames was a patient of mine, yes. I oversaw his treatment for just over a year for clinical schizophrenia. Ray had an inability to grasp reality. He seemed to suffer from some kind of post-traumatic stress."

I wonder about the other kids... "Is that something you've seen before?"

"I've treated similar cases." Care to vague that up?

Scully seem to know where this is going. "Were any of those Ray Soames' classmates?"

"Yes."

"We're trying to find a connection in these deaths. Did you treat any of these kids with hypnosis?"

"No, I did not." Must be one of those people who doesn't think hypnosis is science.

"Are you treating any of these kids now?" Scully asks him.

"Currently? Yes, I'm treating Billy Miles and Peggy O'Dell. Both have been long term live-in patients." Good. Someone to talk to.

"They're here at this hospital?" Scully asks.

"That's right, going on four years now."

Exactly where the FBI wants me. "Would it be possible for us to talk to them?" she continues.

"Well, you might find it difficult. Certainly, in Billy Miles' case."

* * *

Billy Miles is as dead to the world as he's been advertised. Peggy sits next to him, and she's reading, but nothing else. "Billy's experiencing what we call a waking coma.," explains the doc. "Functionally, his brainwaves are flat and he's persistent vegetative."

"How did it happen?" Scully asks.

"Both he and Peggy were involved in an automobile accident out on State road. Peggy?"

She stops reading.

"Peggy, we have some visitors, would you like to talk with them for a moment?"

"Billy wants me to read now." She resumes.

This girl could tell me everything. I kneel in front of her. "Does he like it when you read to him?"

"Yes. Billy needs me close."

I wonder if they gave her telepathy? Anyway, we need to check for symptoms of abduction. I head back to the doctor. "Doctor. I'm wondering if we can do a cursory medical exam on Peggy."

And Peggy suddenly goes nuts, wrecking the room.

She puts her hand to her face and pulls it away covered in blood – her nose is bleeding. While everyone else runs around trying to calm her down, she's fallen out of her weelchair and the back of her shirt is right in front of me. So I have to know, it's that simple. I lift it up just an inch, and there are two little bumps on her lower back, right where they should be.

I look behind me, to Scully. I want to show her, but she's already seen.

I didn't think anyone could look that shocked. And then she stomps out of the room. I seriously consider just letting her run, but that's not a good idea.

I catch her down the hall, about to head outside. "What's his name, er... Billy said he was sorry he didn't get to say goodbye."

She rounds on me, and she is furious. "How did you know that girl was going to have the marks?"

"I don't know, lucky guess?" If I tell her, she'll report it and that'll be the end of my career in the FBI.

"Damn it, Mulder, cut the crap. What is going on here? What do you know about those marks? What are they?"

Does it matter what they are? Really? If I don't tell her, my methods aren't producing anything. If I do tell her, I'm crazy. "Why? So you can put it down in your little report? I don't think you're ready for what I think."

"I'm here to solve this case, Mulder, I want the truth."

At least if I'm crazy they'll pay for my care. "The truth? I think those kids have been abducted."

"By who?"

It's probably a collective consciousness. Like the Borg. "By what," I reply in a moment of mysteriousness.

The look on her face is totally worth it. "You don't really believe that?"

"Do you have a better explanation?"

"I'll buy that girl is suffering some kind of pronounced psychosis. Whether it's organic or the result of those marks, I can't say. But to say that they've been riding around in flying saucers, it's crazy, Mulder, there is nothing to support that."

Not nothing. It shares elements with thousands of abduction scenarios all over the country... but there's nothing concrete, so it doesn't count. "Nothing scientific, you mean."

"There has got to be an explanation. You've got four victims. All of them died in or near the woods. They found Karen Swenson's body in the forest in her pajamas, ten miles from her house. How did she get there? What were those kids doing out there in the forest?"

Well, she's not writing her report yet. Progress.

* * *

Of course, to prove that I'm right, we have to go out to the forest and find a complete lack of evidence. Which the police have already done, but no, since we're here, we have to be thorough.

When we get to the forest, it's already dark. Oregon's kind of pretty. Crickets chirping, woodsy woods... is that a coyote moving around in that bush? Scratch that pretty thing. Not pretty.

Luckily we brought flashlights. Despite the fact that this is a crime scene, the Sheriff hasn't yet returned our calls, so we're just gonna hope we don't get caught. Once we're in the trees, we split up and go to look around. I'm wandering past yet another fern, minding my own business, when the rumbling starts behind me. For a second, a wild hope flares through me that I'll get abducted by aliens, which would solve a good number of my problems, but it's not a UFO. When I follow the sound, I find a man with a rifle pointed at Scully, who is pointing her gun back at him. He's just at the point of accusing her of tresspassing.

"We are conducting an investigation," she says, not wavering in the slightest, but I run up to her and point my gun at the guy too.

"Get in your car and leave, both of you, or I'll have to arrest you. I don't care who you are."

Now wait just a damn minute! "Hold on! This is a crime scene." Although we don't actually have clearance...

"Did you hear what I said? You are on private property without legal permission. Now, I'm only going to say it one more time, get in your car and leave."

We really do have to get in our car and leave. Dammit. We'll just have to sneak in better tomorrow. "What's he doing out here all by himself?" I ask her.

"Maybe it has something to do with this." She opens her hand. It's full of... ash, maybe, or sand? "What do you think it is?"

We're at the Oregon Coast, for crying out loud! "I don't know. Is it a campfire?"

"It was all over the ground. I think something is going on out here, some kind of a sacrifice, maybe. What if these kids are involved in some kind of occult and that man knows something about it?" Occult? That's your theory? How is that any better than E.T? My compass is still spinning. "I wanna come back here," she adds, oblivious.

Following the traditional pattern, we should lose time soon. My watch says 9:03. Compass still spinning. "You okay, Mulder?"

"Yeah, I'm just, er..." I don't know how to explain, so I start scanning the sky.

"What are you looking for?"

And then everything is white.

And then the car glides to a stop. I try to turn it on but it's just dead.

"What happened?"

Start with the obvious. "We lost power, brakes, steering, everything." It's 9:12 – no, 9:13. "We lost nine minutes."

It must have been right here, and I MISSED IT. Before I know it, I'm out of the car, screaming into the heavens. My sanity case is looking thinner and thinner. Scully climbs out after me and has to yell to be heard over the rain.

"We lost what?"

Stick to the facts and you could get out of this, Mulder. "Nine minutes. I looked at my watch just before the flash and it was nine-o-three. It just turned nine-thirteen." Something pink catches my eye, and I run toward it. "Look! Look!" We stop at the spot. The X I painted in the road on the way into town. "Oh-ho, yes! Abductees... people who have made UFO sightings, they've reported unexplained time loss."

"Come on."

I'm on a roll now. "Gone! Just like that."

"No, what a minute. You're saying that, that time disappeared. Time can't just disappear, it's, it's, it's a universal invariant!" Said with the tone of someone clinging to a lifeboat in eel-infested waters.

The car starts up again. "Not in this zipcode," I answer. So we get back in and drive away.

* * *

I might actually sleep if someone wasn't pounding on my door. But when I open it, it's Scully. She looks terrified.

I'm thinking mugger, attempted rape, something along those lines. "Hi."

"I want you to look at something."

Look at what? "Come on in."

She walks into my room, turns her back, and takes off her bathrobe. She's wearing a bra and underwear underneath. She looks at me, fear in her eyes, and then glances downward. I follow her gaze and notice, in the candlelight, a few bumps on her lower back.

No way. No way would fate be so cruel as to let someone who doesn't even believe be abducted by aliens and come back with no proof. No freaking w-

Those are not Alien Test Bumps.

They are mosquito bites.

"What are they?"

I am such an idiot.

"Mulder, what are they?" Her voice contains a tinge of panic.

She's not incapable of believing. "Mosquito bites."

"Are you sure?"

The panic's still there. This partner thing might not be as bad as I thought. "Yeah. I got eaten up a lot myself out there." She pulls her robe back on and wraps her arms around me, shaking slightly. She must have been way more scared than she let on. "You okay?"

"Yes." She lets go. I should have kept my mouth shut.

Back on uncertain terms again. "You're shaking."

"I need to sit down."

She grabs a chair and takes deep, regular breaths. I grab the one across from her. "Take your time."

She is silent for a while.

"Mulder," she asks finally, "don't you ever feel like just giving all this up?"

Easy answer. "No."

She frowns at me. "Why not?"

I stand up and pace around the room, trying to formulate an answer to that question. "Because if I quit... something that shouldn't win will beat me."

That seems reasonably safe.

"Don't you ever feel that way about anything in your life?" I ask, genuinely curious all of a sudden.

She nods slowly. "My parents want me to be a doctor. I like the FBI. My father and I still can't even really talk about it. But part of the reason I can't quit now is that if I do, I'll be admitting that he knows what's right for me more than I do."

She does understand. I slump down next to the bed. "You see what I meant by that then."

I feel the bed move behind me as she settles down on it. "Yeah."

There is silence again.

"Mulder – why did you get started in the first place?"

If I'm going to tell this story, I'll have to start at the real beginning. "I was twelve when it happened. My sister was eight. She just disappeared out of her bed one night. Just gone, vanished. No note, no phone calls, no evidence of anything."

"You never found her."

She's about Samantha's age. She would have been nine or so. I wonder if she remembers hearing about Samantha at all as a child. "Tore the family apart. No one would talk about it. There were no facts to confirm, nothing to offer any hope."

"What did you do?"

Nothing. There was nothing to do. "Eventually, I went off to school in England, I came back, got recruited by the bureau. Seems I had a natural aptitude for applying behavioral models to criminal cases. My success allowed me a certain freedom to pursue my own interests. And that's when I came across the X-Files."

"By accident?"

We'll leave Diana out of it for now. "At first, it looked like a garbage dump for UFO sightings, alien abduction reports, the kind of stuff that most people laugh at as being ridiculous. But I was fascinated. I read all the cases I could get my hands on, hundreds of them. I read everything I could about paranormal phenomenon, about the occult and..." I've already told her about Samantha. Everything else is just gravy, really. Doesn't matter what she can do to my career, she can ruin my whole life with that knowledge.

"What?"

"There's classified government information I've being trying to access, but someone has been blocking my attempts to get at it."

"Who? I don't understand." But her posture is more erect, and I can tell she does understand, at least a little bit.

Don't let my instincts be wrong. "Someone at a higher level of power. The only reason I've been allowed to continue with my work is because I've made connections in congress."

"And they're afraid of what? That, that you'll leak this information?"

I don't know what they fear. But it isn't me. I'm just a flea, an annoyance. I'm nothing. "You're a part of that agenda, you know that."

"I'm not a part of any agenda. You've got to trust me. I'm here just like you, to solve this."

She's got serious denial. I move closer to her, willing her to believe. "I'm telling you this, Scully, because you need to know, because of what you've seen. In my research, I've worked very closely with a man named Dr. Heitz Werber and he's taken me through deep regression hypnosis. I've been able to go into my own repressed memories to the night my sister disappeared. I can recall a bright light outside and a presence in the room. I was paralyzed, unable to respond to my sister's calls for help." Her eyes are wide and unblinking and blue and I feel like I'm drowning. "Listen to me, Scully, this thing exists."

I want to explain how I know, but I don't know how.

"But how do you know..."

"The government knows about it, and I got to know what they're protecting. Nothing else matters to me, and this is as close as I've ever gotten to it."

Nothing else matters.

The phone rings and I think we both jump about a foot. I grab it before it rings again. "Hello?"

"Peggy O'Dell is dead."

Huh? "What?"

"Peggy died tonight."

"Who is this? Who is thi..."

But the dial tone answers me. I turn back to Scully. "That was some woman... she just said Peggy O'Dell was dead."

"The girl in the wheelchair?"

* * *

She's out in the middle of the road, lying under a sheet. Scully drifts toward the body, so I drift toward the deputy and the driver of the Mack truck that hit her. Poor Peggy. "What happened?"

The driver is shaking. "She ran right out in front of me."

"Who are you?" asks the deputy.

Ran? She was running? "She was running? On foot?"

"Listen, sir, I don't know who you are, but you're going to have to let me keep questioning this gentleman without interfering!" shouts the deputy.

I'm about to shout back, when his radio goes. It's static to me, but the deputy pales a bit and then asks, "Are you Agent Mulder?"

Not good. "Yes."

"I'm sorry, but someone just found the autopsy bay vandalized and the body you were working on stolen."

I hate conspiracies. "Well, that's just..." But I never get the chance to finish.

"We need to ask you a few quest..." Scully begins

They'll be going after our motel next. "Let's go, let's go." She gives me a weird look as I drag her away. "Someone trashed the autopsy bay in the lab and they stole the body, we're going back to the motel."

"What? They stole the corpse?"

* * *

Well, the hotel's a loss. As in burning to the ground. Cops and firemen everywhere. I can't get in, despite the badge. It's not a fireproof shield. "There goes my computer," Scully mutters.

"Damn it! The x-rays and pictures!" I just realized exactly what we lost.

The firemen keep running around. "We need a couple of men out here!"

My motel's never been burned down before. What the hell are we gonna do now?

"My name is Theresa Nemman. You've got to protect me."

Which is at least a new development. And just when I thought we were SOL. "Come with us."

* * *

There's a diner three blocks away that's open. Theresa sits next to Scully in a booth and tells us her story. "This is the way it happens, I don't know how I get out there. I'll just find myself out in the woods."

Classic. "How long has it been happening?"

"Ever since the summer we graduated. It's happened to my friends too. That's why I need you to protect me. I'm scared I might... die like the others, like... Peggy did tonight."

I remember her. She's the girl we met on the first day here – Dr. Nemman's daughter. "Your father's the medical examiner. You were the one on the phone, you told me Peggy O'Dell had been killed."

She nods.

Scully speaks up for the first time. "Theresa, your father knows about this, doesn't he? About what happened."

"Yes. But he said never to tell anyone about any of it."

A very odd twist. "Why?"

"He wants to protect me. He thinks he can protect me, but I don't think he can."

At least maybe we can get some confirmation. "Do you have the marks, Theresa?"

"Yes. I'm going to die, aren't I? I'm gonna be next?"

Scully shakes her head. "No, you're not going to die." But Theresa isn't listening because her nose has just started bleeding at an alarming rate.

"Oh, God!"

Scully grabs some napkins, but Dr. Nemman and the Detective show up at exactly that time.

"Let's go home, Theresa. Theresa, come on," says the doctor, and he sits down next to her, puts a handkerchief to her nose. "Come on, honey."

"I don't think she wants to leave," I tell him. I'm on dangerous ground and I know it.

"Come on..." He looks over at me. "I don't care what you think! She's a sick girl."

The detective joins in. "Your father wants to take you home. He'll get you all cleaned up."

"I'm going to take you where you'll be safe, Theresa. Detective Miles and I won't let anything happen to you, I promise."

Miles? _Miles?_ "You're Billy Miles' father?" No way.

"That's right. And you stay away from that boy."

Ouch. That hurts.

Dr. Nemman bundles Theresa into his van and they drive her away. She never says "no" and we can't stop them.

I hate this town. "Eh, you gotta love this place. Everyday's like Halloween."

"They know Mulder. They know who's responsible for the murders."

She's right. "They know something."

We head to the car, and Scully continues her rant. "Dr. Nemman's been hiding medical evidence from the beginning. He lied on the autopsy reports and now we find out about the detective. Who else would have reason to trash the lab and our rooms?"

She's said it, now. We both stop walking. It doesn't make any sense... "Why would they destroy evidence? What would they want with that corpse?"

"I don't know, I..."

There might be more evidence to be found. "Makes you wonder what's in those other two graves."

* * *

So we grab our flashlights and head into the dark cemetery and night, in the pouring rain. It's no trouble finding the graves. Just look for the big holes in the ground. "They're both empty."

"What is going on here?"

Who is hiding? There's no motive. But someone in a mental ward wouldn't really need motive, would they? "I think I know who did it. I think I know who killed Karen Swenson."

"Who? The detective?"

He's the obvious choice. Except he has no motive. But he might have something to hide. "The detective's son. Billy Miles."

"The boy in the hospital? The vegetable?! Billy Miles, a boy who's been in a coma for the last four years, got out here and dug up these graves?"

She doesn't believe. I want her to believe. "Peggy O'Dell was bound to a wheelchair but she ran in front of that truck. Look, I'm not making this up, it all fits the profile of alien abduction."

"This fits a profile?"

"Yes. Peggy O'Dell was killed at around nine-o-clock, that's right around the time we lost nine minutes on the highway, I think that something happened in that nine minutes. I think that time, as we know it, stopped. And something took control over it." She smiles. In fact, she grins. "You think I'm crazy." She nods. Damn. There goes that. I'm sunk. I head back to the car – and then I realize she's not squelching along behind me. "What?"

"Peggy O'Dell's watch stopped a couple of minutes after nine. I made a note of it when I saw the body."

It all fits. "That's the reason the kids come to the forest, because the forest controls them and summons them there. And, and, and the marks are from, from some kind of test that's being done on them. And, and that may be causing some kind of genetic mutation which would explain the body that we dug up." I'm making this up as I go along, but it _fits, _it all fits...

"And the force summoned Theresa Nemman's body into the woods tonight."

"Yes, but it was Billy Miles who took her there, summoned by some alien impulse. That's it!" I've got it. I've done it. It's solved. Scully laughs, sounding slightly insane. We'd better go see our killer. "Come on, let's get out of here."

"Where are we going?"

"We're going to pay a visit to Billy Miles."

When we walk out of the cemetery, I can't shake the feeling that nothing will ever be the same.

* * *

"Now, we could stand here until the second coming, waiting for Billy to get out of this bed. It ain't going to happen. He blinks and I know about it."

She examines his I.V. I like her. "I guess you changed his bedpan last night."

"Hmm, nobody else here's gonna do it."

Okay, so I know she saw him. "You noticed nothing unusual? Do you remember what you were doing last night around nine-o-clock?"

"Mmm, probably watching TV, yeah."

Oh yeah, he blinks and you know about it. "Do you rememeber what you were watching?"

"Um, let's see... you know I don't really remember what I watched." Sigh. "Miss?"

Scully is inspecting Billy's feet. "What is she looking for?"

"Mulder, take a look at this."

I'm very in demand, aren't I? Scully is scraping dirt off of Billy's feet and into a glass vial. There's dirt on Billy's feet. I'm brilliant, all right. "Do you know who was taking care of Peggy O'Dell last night?" I ask the nurse.

"Not me, it's not my ward. Not my aisle of the produce section." I was wrong. I don't like her anymore. "I do have a job of my own to do... what is she doing now?"

She's just closing the vial, for God's sake! "Thank you for your time, ma'am."

"Okay."

"Good day." And then we're free.

One we're in the hall, Scully starts talking a mile a minute. "That kid may have killed Peggy O'Dell, I don't believe this."

"Scully..." I begin.

"It's crazy! He was in the woods."

How can she prove that? "You're sure?" She holds up her vial.

"This is the same stuff that I took a handful of in the forest."

Great. Now we just need proof. "Okay, then maybe we should take it and run a lab test..."

"We lost the original sample in the fire. What else could it be?"

I don't believe what I'm hearing. We stop walking. "All right, but I just want you to understand what it is you're saying."

"You said it yourself."

Yes, yes I did. "Yeah, but you have to write it down in your report."

"You're right. We'll take another sample from the forest... and run a comparison before we do anything."

* * *

When we get out to the forest, the detective's van is there. Possibly not a good sign. He's not inside, at least, so we're not caught yet. I have a feeling he's going to be even less tolerant this time. We really should go away and come back when he's gone.

"The detective's here. What do you think?"

Someone screams in the woods.

Screw smart planning – anything could be going on in there! We run through bushes and trees. It's dark and I lose track of Scully but I don't even care. We run. We will find her. She must be here, somewhere...

Somewhere.

She screams again, and I turn toward the sound. The ground is uneven, and I look down for just a second as a I stumble. When I look back up the detective is there with a shotgun.

"Hold it, hold it right there! You got no business out here."

I can't believe he'd ignore the screaming. "There were screams..." I begin to try to explain.

"Down on the ground. Now!"

I'm not gonna just give up. "You know it's Billy. You've known it all along."

"I said down on the ground."

This is gonna be easy. Not like the guy's a criminal mastermind. "How long are you gonna let it happen?" Another scream. "He's gonna kill her!"

For just a second, he looks away, and then suddenly he runs into the woods. I chase him, and suddenly we're in a clearing. Billy is standing in a pool of light, holding Theresa in his arms. They are surrounded by swirling wind and leaves and dust. It gets in my eyes but I cannot look away. They're here. I know, now. I'm right. They exist.

I've proved it to myself.

The detective is yelling but I don't hear what he said. Suddenly he pulls out his shotgun and points it at his own son.

Not the plan I had in mind.

I tackle him to the ground, which may have been one of my dumber plans. Oh, yes, tackle the man with the shotgun. Great idea, Fox.

Bang!

For a second I think I'm shot, but it didn't hit either one of us. Billy picks her up and looks to the sky, and in the light I can see two small bumps on his back, just above the waistband of his pajama pants.

I love being right.

The wind grows stronger and the light gets brighter – and then they die down. A sudden thunderclap, and Billy is standing in front of us. Theresa is on the ground. But she's moving, so it's okay.

And Billy is moving too. "Dad?" he asks.

"Billy. Oh, god."

I can't watch their touching reunion. A feeling of unfairness overwhelms me and I look away. I notice, with scientific detachment, that Billy's bumps are gone. Whatever they've done to him is over for now.

Scientific detachment? "Scully." Crap, I lost her.

Well, I guess that's one way to make sure they don't shut me down. Lose the spy in the woods. Dammit. "Scully!"

Luckily, she's right there when I start looking. "Mulder, what happened? There was a light."

I noticed. "It was incredible."

* * *

It wasn't that hard to get Dr. Werber to come visit Billy when we got him back to Washington. Billy, after all, is what he's made his career for.

"If you can hear me, raise your right hand."

And Billy does.

"Tell me about the light, Billy. When did you first see the light?"

That damn light.

"In the forest. We were all in the forest having a party. All my friends. We were celebrating."

Playing Stragego. I was playing Stragego with Samantha.

"What were you celebrating?"

Mom and Dad were just down the street.

"Graduation. And then the light came. It took me away to the testing place."

Is Samantha in the testing place now?

"They would tell me to gather the others so that they could do tests. They put something in my head... here."

What have they done to her?

"I would wait for their orders."

Is Samntha their slave too?

"Billy, who gave the orders?"

Who? Who did this to her? To my parents? To me?

"The light. They said it would be okay. No one would know. But the test didn't work. They wanted everything destroyed. They said they were leaving. I'm afraid. I'm afraid they're coming back." He begins to cry.

Is Samantha even alive to cry over what she's lost?

"Don't be afraid Billy, we're gonna help."

The door on the other side of the glass opens and I look over to where I know Scully is. She's watching this all. What could she possibly be thinking?

* * *

When I call over to the D.A. in Oregon, our paperwork is gone. Everything we've done and nothing's been accomplished.

Actually, something has.

I file my request with Blevins to keep Scully in the basement with me. I know he'll go along with it – probably with a chuckle over how dumb I am. But I know what side she's on. It's not my side – it's the side of the truth.

Something I can't really say I'm against.

The only thing is that Scully could stop that from happening. It was supposed to be short-term after all.

* * *

I can't sleep.

Somehow, we haven't been shut down. When we became we, I'm not sure, but there it is. Scully and I.

It's only eleven or so, so I call her. She answers on the first ring.

I knew she wasn't asleep.

"Hello?"

"Scully? It's me, I haven't been able to sleep. I talked to the D.A.'s office in Raymon County, Oregon. There's no case file on Billy Miles. The paperwork we filed is gone. We need to talk, Scully."

"Y, yes. Tomorrow."

And then she's gone.


	2. Deep Throat

I didn't make it and I don't own it. I just play with it.

* * *

By the beginning of April we've gotten into something of a routine. Even though she may not be evil in the strictest possible sense of that term, I'm not sure she's not going to rat me out for spending my days throwing pencils at the ceiling either, so I've made an effort to appear very very productive. I read the newspapers diligently, looking for unexplained phenomena, until ten-thirty every day. And then I scan through old X-files from ten-forty five to one (that's a fifteen minute coffee break) and then I eat lunch. After lunch, I read up on the occult for the rest of the afternoon until it's time to go home.

Not that that's particularly dull, but I miss my pencils. Also, I have no idea what Scully's getting up to during that time, despite the fact that she's sitting four and a half feet away from me. Sometimes she reads old files, saying she's trying to get a handle on what it is she's going to be working with. Sometimes she reads medical journals. All of the time I'm bored.

Today is different though. I actually found something in the paper this morning relating to the Budahas case, and I've spent the entire day looking into it. Okay, all morning and my lunch break.

It was just a little human interest piece about a woman on an air force base who is trying to find out where her husband is. Something about how the military took him captive and they won't tell her where he is.

The base is in Idaho, and I got more of the story from local papers and the FBI file I've been keeping tabs on for a month now. Robert Budahas was taken from his home in questionable medical condition four months ago. His wife has heard nothing from him since. Budahas is some kind of test pilot, and the last time he was seen, he was under military arrest. That's all there is.

It's freaking weird.

After I get done reading up on all that in front of a microfiche machine (side note: those things make me queasy and I lost my breakfast reading up on this) I decide maybe a working lunch is in order, so I call Scully for lunch. Then I call and remind her. Then I call and realize I never picked a place to actually eat lunch, and have her meet me at that bar down the street, the name of which I can never remember.

Casey's. That's it – Casey's.

She's sitting at the bar already, reading a file, when I get there. Somehow she senses my approach and looks up before I can say anything.

"Hi. I got your message."

I could at least apologize for forgetting to tell her where to meet me. Twice. "Sorry for the runaround. Can I buy you a drink?"

"It's two o'clock in the afternoon, Agent Mulder."

The place is packed. "It's not stopping the rest of these people." She doesn't dignify that with an answer, which is probably good since we're on duty. "I got something to show you."

"Something you couldn't show me at work."

That basement's crowded. Why would we meet there? I don't even know where we'd put another desk, so thank God she hasn't asked for one. "Let's get a table." We sit down across the room and I hand her the brand-spanking-new Budahas file. She flips it open to the first page, which is the picture. "That's Colonel Robert Budahas. That photo was taken last year when he was a test pilot for the military, stationed at Ellens Air Base in Southwest Idaho. Four months ago, Colonel Budahas experienced a psychotic episode and barricaded himself in his home. Military police were called in. Budahas was removed and apparently hospitalized with treatment of his condition."

"Which was what, exactly?"

Yeah, the file's a little sparse, isn't it? "The military will not comment on the cause, nature or status. In fact, the military will not comment on Colonel Budahas at all."

Got her attention now. "What do you mean?"

"Mrs. Budahas has neither seen nor heard from her husband in over four months. Her inquiries to the military have gone unanswered. Last month, she contacted the FBI and reported it as a kidnapping." I don't like kidnappings. I just don't.

"What reason would the military have to kidnap one of their own pilots?"

I knew she was gonna ask that. "That's the sixty-four thousand dollar question, Scully." I hand her everything else I've dug up on the history of the base. "Since 1963, six pilots have been listed as missing in action, from Ellens Air Base. The military will say only that these pilots accepted the risks of flying experimental aircraft."

"Yeah, there were rumors those pilots were shot down at high altitudes, while they were routinely penetrating Russian airspace."

Navy brat. I guess she knows these things. "There were other rumors too." She glances up at me, and I can practically see the wheels turning. "I've been tracking this case since it came through the Boise regional office last month. Last week, for reasons I can't figure out, it was deprioritized. They _shelved_ this case without an investigation, Scully."

"_So?_"

What's there to 'so' about? "So, you and I, are going to the spud state to investigate a little kidnapping."

"I don't get it Mulder. Does this have something to do with an X-File? I thought you only liked those, er, paranormal type cases. Am I missing something here?"

It's weird, that's what. And I need to take a piss. "Let's just say, this case has a, distinct smell to it, a certain... paranormal bouquet. Excuse me." I'm not running away, but if I told her about the UFOs out there, she'd have me committed.

* * *

In the bathroom, there is an old man standing behind me. I can see him reflected in the mirror, staring at me.

Something about him seems familiar, but I can't quite place it.

"Leave this case alone Agent Mulder."

Disbelief. Pure disbelief. "What?"

"The military will not tolerate an FBI investigation."

I don't care. "Who are you?"

"I, uh... can be of help to you. I've had a certain interest in your work."

Someone knocks on the door, and I realize he's bolted it shut. "How do you know about my work?"

"Well, let's just say that I'm in a position to know quite a lot of things-" he switches to a whisper- "things about our government."

A spy? I have my own spy? "Who are you? Who do you work for?"

"It's unimportant, I came here to give you some valuable advice. You are exposing yourself and Agent Scully to unnecessary risk, I advise you to _drop the case_."

It would be just like having my very own Deep Throat. "I can't do that."

"You have much work to do Agent Mulder," he says, unlocking the door. "Don't jeopardize the future of your own efforts." And then he walks out the door.

I try to chase him, but someone gets in my way, and when I make it out into the bar, he's already gone.

Scully sees me and crosses the room. I probably look like a mental patient the way I'm staring around. "You okay, Mulder?"

Maybe. "Yeah, I'm fine," I tell Scully, and we both return to work.

* * *

While I'm fixing my canned chili that night, I get a phone call. This is a fairly unusual occurrence. Other than the Gunmen, I don't seem to have tons of friends. And they're not, you know, sociable.

Like I said, weird. "Hello."

"Mulder?"

I'm in deep shit. She's read the file already. "Yeah."

"I checked on that file you gave me."

Already? Does she actually _do _anything else? "Uh-huh."

"You failed to tell me a few things." Something in the phone clicks, but when I look at the headset, everything looks totally normal. Clicking is a symptom of a wiretap, and suddenly I'm not having so much fun imagining Scully reading files while she cooks dinner, takes a bath, and goes to bed. "Are you there Mulder?"

I'm here, but if they're listening, they must be close by too. "Yeah." I walk over to the window and peek out. Sure enough, there's a van across the street. Do they think I'm dumb?

"Did you hear what I said, because the bureau has it out for us already and it would make us appear pretty stupid if my field report read like some tabloid story."

We need to get off this line. "Er, listen, I don't want to talk about it on this line. I'll, I'll talk to you about it on the flight out, OK?" Jerk that I am, I hang up on her.

It's not until I'm checking the bottom of the phone for tampering that I realize that she said the Bureau has it out for _us_.

* * *

Upon arrival in Idaho, we drop our bags off at the local motel (Free HBO! - nonfunctional TVs) and then drive out to the base to the Budahas' house. Airplanes keep flying over us all the time we're on the base, and one flies right over our heads while we're waiting for the door, which is why we don't even notice when she opens it. I don't know how people get used to this.

"Hello?"

She's a small, curly-haired woman in a housedress. "Mrs. Budahas?"

"Yes."

I pull out my ID. "We're from the FBI."

"Oh, yes, please, come in."

She ushers us down the hall to the living room and Scully jumps straight into the questions.

"Mrs. Budahas, when was the first time you realized something odd was happening?"

"I started noticing it about two years ago, Bob developed this rash under his arms. We'd been doing some renovations on the house, so that, we thought it was a reaction to the paint stripper. But then everything just, went crazy."

"How do you mean?"

I am content to let Scully ask the questions for now, while I examine the photos of Mr. Budahas himself.

"Bob's whole personality, it was so unpredictable. He started, doing things."

That's when I know I need to jump in. Too vague. "What kinds of things?"

"It was kind of embarrassing at first, we were having this dinner party once, and, erm, he sprinkled Tetrameal D all other his food." Scully shoots her a confused look, even though I know what she means, and she expands on what she's said. "That's fish food flakes."

"Did you ever talk to him about this?"

"I tried, it was extremely difficult, Bob would get so angry, he'd, yell at the kids for no reason, and, and then, and then he would shake, like he was having a-a seizure."

Huh. Something was affecting him physically. "Did he ever talk about his work?"

"It was never discussed, even before the problems. Oh, I knew that he worked on top secret projects, word gets around, but, Bob was always a patriot first. He took, loyalty to his country as an oath, and, and now they treat us like strangers." She sobs, looks down, gathers herself, and continues, "I just want my husband back."

"You know that the government is not above the law," says Scully. "They cannot withhold information."

"Then I think, what if he's..." She lets out a little sob. "How would I support the family?"

If they're doing something secret here, he can't be the only one. "You said word gets around, I'm sorry... have you ever heard of this, happening to anyone else?"

"Yeah. Veria McLennen's husband, he went kinda crazy, but it's not like he didn't get to come home."

Scully glances my way, and I know what she's going to say before she says it. "Mrs. Budahas, do you think we could meet Veria McLennen's husband?"

She blinks, surprised. "I suppose so. Excuse me." She slips away into the kitchen and dials the phone. I can hear her end of the conversation, arranging for her kids to go to a neighbor's house, and then another one to arrange to drop by the McLennens' with some "people looking for Robert."

I glance through the living room, looking at photos and certificates. Budahas's Presidential Commendation is hanging on the wall, portraits of the family, and the kids' school pictures. Why is it, I wonder, that some families can be torn apart and yet still remain? My father didn't take a single picture of Samantha when he moved out. Mom hid them all in the basement, except the last school picture. Neither had any pictures of each other – it was just pictures of me on Mom's mantel.

And none on my dad's.

"It's just a few blocks," Mrs. Budahas interrupts my thinking. "Do you mind walking?"

* * *

Veria McLennen is a blonde housewife with a Southern accent and a rather superior air about her. She shows us a screened – in porch where her husband is sitting, working on "his hobby". When I see Veria McLennen's husband, I kind of hope the Robert Budahas is dead. The man is pulling out his own sparse hair to make fish flies.

Gross.

Scully is talking to Mrs. McLennen. "How long has he been..."

"Almost two years, the flyfishing idea was his brother Hank's. I was upset at first, but when you're the wife of a test pilot, you thank God just to have him home alive."

And no explanation. "Mrs. McLennen, has anyone ever offered to explain what caused this?"

"Stress, I guess. You have to understand, the military deals with things in a certain way. They've given him plenty of therapy, and treatment, and I'm thankful for that. They've taken good care of us. And you know they do volunteer for their jobs." She walks over to Mrs. Budahas and mutters. "Really Anita, bringing the FBI to my house."

Mr. McLennen never even notices that we're there.

* * *

When we return to Mrs. Budahas's house, she hands Scully a piece of paper. "Here, I've, erm, I've called all the numbers about a thousand times, please, let me know what you find out."

"We'll be staying at the Beech Grove Motel if you anything, okay?"

"Thanks." She calls her kids inside and goes to do some military wife-y thing like baking cookies or reading the Bible.

Time to get some scientific insight. "So what did you make of Uncle Fester down the block?"

"It's called steritopy, it's a syndrome produced by extreme stress. POWs have been known to suffer from it, they've studied it in zoo animals."

"Yeah, but these guys aren't zoo animals, they're test pilots. They're not supposed to fold under pressure, they're supposed to thrive on it."

We arrive at our rental car. Scully frowns. "Ever hear of something called The Aurora Project?"

I think I have -yeah. "Yeah, that's the, er, unacknowledged codename for some new kind of defense department surveillance project."

"The Pentagon has all but admitted, they've been testing a secret class of sub-orbital spy craft over the western US. Maybe, these guys are flying those planes. Maybe these guys are the washouts."

That's bull. "You saw the photos on the wall in there. This guy Budahas received a presidential commendation, he's never washed out of anything in his life."

We both climb in the car to drive back to the motel and start making calls.

Scully takes the phone list and I take the official channels. I get put on hold and she gets hung up on for almost an hour before I see her hang up with something resembling a satisfied look. I sit down on the bed in her room and tell her, "I've been on hold with the base director of communications for fourty-five minutes, how about you?"

"Yeah, somebody named Colonel Kissel will meet with us, a week from Friday."

They'll cancel that and she knows it. "Yeah, right." Gives us a name, though. I pull out the phone book. "Did you say Kissel?"

* * *

He lives on base, about two blocks from the Budahas home. No one's home when we arrive, so we sit outside the house and wait, since we have nothing better to do until a week from Friday. He finally arrives after thirty minutes of boredom and we jump out of the car. "Colonel Kissel?" I call, and he turns around warily.

"Yes."

Not promising. "Can I talk with you? Special Agent Mulder, FBI."

"I've got nothing to say. Please, this is an invasion of my privacy."

What if I just wanted a jump? "Why don't you talk to us about Colonel Budahas?"

"Why don't you get the hell out of my yard."

I don't think we're gonna get any help from him. He runs inside and slams his door.

"Good thing we still kept that appointment," Scully says. I'm inclined to agree.

We turn at the sound of footsteps behind us, and there's a guy in his thirties or forties stanging there with a notepad. "Hi. Are you the FBI agents? I'm Paul Mossinger, I, er, work for the local paper. We live a few houses down from Veria McLennen, she said you guys are out here looking into this Budahas thing."

I hate reporters. "We're just looking around." We try to head back to our car, but -

"Aah, gotcha, right. Lot of people around here just looking around, UFO nuts mostly, but it's not everyday we get FBI." We hear an airplane, and look up, but we can't see it. "By the time you hear them, they're already gone. So this Budahas thing, are you getting anywhere?"

Still hating reporters. "We're not at liberty to comment."

"Well..."

No more. Besides, maybe he can help me out. "Paul? Right? You've lived in this area a while, you ever seen a UFO?"

"Never, bunch of hooey if you ask me. People see what they wanna see."

Fine. Unimportant. "But, if I wanted to talk to those UFO nuts, that you referred to earlier, where would I go?"

He frowns at me. "There's a place called the Flying Saucer Diner, run by some woman named Zoe. She's one of the nuts, holds meetings and stuff. It's over on the corner of Ash and Morris. Can't miss it, trust me."

* * *

The place is, indeed, called the Flying Saucer Diner, and it is, indeed, run by a very nice woman named Zoe. While we're chatting, another airplane flies overhead, this one rattling the glasses on the shelves.

"F-15 Eagle pulling about four g's. Those boys think they are such hotshots. Get a few  
drinks in em, you'd think it was them up there flapping their wings."

I like her. I point to the UFO photos on the back wall. "Who's the photographer?"

"Various and sundry. I took the one on the end there."

Reealy? Cool. "You're kidding, where?"

"Out on the back porch, taking out the garbage, and there it was, just hovering." She pulls it down and hands it to me. Shows no obvious signs of being a fake. "Quiet like a hummingbird." I glance at Scully, but she closes her eyes in pain. "For a minute there, I thought it was gonna land in the parking lot and I was gonna have to serve em lunch." Scully takes the photo away from me and studies it. "I'm selling limited edition prints, twenty dollars. Down to my last five, if you're interested."

Twenty bucks? Cool. "Put it on my tab."

I try to ignore Scully, I really do, as she leans over and whispers "Sucker."

Instead I continue talking to Zoe. "What would the chances be of someone like me, seeing a UFO?"

"Catch ya outside." Scully leaves.

Zoe doesn't even notice her departure. "Depends on where you go. Out by the base, there's this field. It's on Highway 27 – that way." She points east.

That easy? "And there's UFOs there?"

"Just about every night. Here, I'll draw you up a map."

Outside, Scully is studying the map of Idaho we got for the trip.

"Wanna see something weird, Mulder? Ellens Air Base isn't even on my US GS quadrant map."

Didn't she look before she left? "I know. Let's go."

"You know. Where are we going?"

I can't help grinning. "We got our own map, _sucker_." I hand her the paper Zoe gave me and try to ignore the look she shoots in my direction.

* * *

Warning: This Area is a Restricted Military Installation to the West.

Not a great beginning. They don't even allow cameras. I pull up the road a little way – not to the west – and park next to a fence. My binoculars – always in the trunk on every trip I take – are all I'll need for this. And for the record, they're not attached to a camera of any kind.

"What do you honestly hope to see?"

She's tenacious, isn't she? "I don't know, maybe nothing."

"Is this why we came out here, Mulder? To look for UFOs." That last part isn't a question. I know, I'm being a jerk. Can't help it. Besides, this should make for a fun day for the person who has to read her field report.

Three hours and I've seen nothing. Absolutely nothing. And then there they are. Turns out I won't need binoculars. Two lights, flying in the sky. Not like planes, either. Bright lights, dancing around each other. Like fireflies, only too high and too bright. Like hummingbirds, only they don't hover in quite the same way. Searchlights with no beam. I don't even know what they could be.

Scully should see this.

As I'm charging down the hill, I notice the sound of glass breaking, but she seems unhurt when I get to her. In fact, I think she was asleep. "Scully, wake up. You've gotta see this." I pull her out of the car and drag her up the hill.

"What are they?"

How the hell should I know? "I don't know, just keep watching it's unbelievable."

"That's unreal. I've never seen anything like it."

I check my watch. It's been a while. "They've been going at it like that for almost half an hour."

"Well, it can't be aircraft. Aircraft can't maneuver like that."

I'm waiting. This should be good. "What else could they be?"

"I don't know, lasers maybe. Being shot from the ground, reflecting up off the clouds." The lights fly upward and vanish into the clouds. Lasers my ass. I look over at her, waiting for an explanation for _that, _but all I get is "Oh my God."

Another light appears in the distance. Perfect – it's headed our way. "Here comes another one."

"That's not a plane, that's a helicopter."

But she doesn't have to warn me, because that's when I hear it too. Down the hill, someone else hears it because they push their way through the fence and the bushes around it and go running off through a field. "Hey," I call after them – like that'll help.

"Let's get outta here," one of them yells, and they run faster, into the field next to the base, and I pull my gun. The boy – they're just kids – looks back and I think he sees it because they both stop and raise their hands in the air. "Okay, don't shoot."

Despite the fact that they're like, seventeen, I feel compelled to say "Stay right there."

"We didn't do anything," the girl protests.

And that's when the helicopter flies overhead. None of us should be found here. "Come on." We all run under a tree – not easily visible to a helicopter.

"He, he, That was extreme." The odor of marijuana is just barely detectable on the boy, and definitely would explain his attitude toward being chased by a helicopter.

Still, a witness is a witness. "Let's go, you're coming with us."

"What?"

* * *

Their names, I discover, are Emil and Ladonna. They go to the local high school and Emil is in a garage band. It doesn't take much prodding to learn all about his little teenagery life. We pick up his moped from down the road and stick it in the back of our car and then drive back to Zoe's.

I guess Zoe has to sleep sometime, because the place is closed.

Scully is questioning the kids about the base by the time we find another seedy diner in the middle of the next block. Emil is explaining the different types of aircraft he's seen in the very vague language of a very stoned teen.

We drag them inside and order a couple of burgers. While we wait for the food, Ladonna tells us about her plans join the army – interesting profession for someone spying on the government for fun while stoned. The food arrives, and Scully cuts to the meat of the matter.

"So, what _exactly_ were you guys doing in there?"

Emil answers. "We were, erm, were..."

They laugh.

"We kinda have this spot," adds Ladonna.

"You know, we go, we kinda, kick back and listen to some tunes and, er, watch the air show."

Watch the air show? A "spot"? Kids today, man. "Were you ever chased out before?"

"No, first time right. Our friend showed us a hole in the fence about a year ago."

"Oh, one time they dropped these bombs, _whoa_!"

"Yeah, it was kinda heavy." He giggles. "Oh, er, there's this place, er, called the Yellow Base, right, where they're supposed to store all this stuff. And my friend said that, there's land mines all around it and junk like that."

Land mines and junk. Great. "What kind of things have you seen?" I ask them.

Emil picks up his hamburger and uses it to illustrate the craft he's seen. "Sometimes they come in real low, and just put on the scares right, it's like eeoou-ra and then they just hang there, and hover without making a sound. And you just think, you know, who turned down the volume, right."

Huh. "What do you think they are?"

"Okay, everybody thinks that they're like, UFOs, but I think it's some kinda, star wars cyber-tech new fangled hardware right, they probably roll it out for, Desert Storm II or something like that. Cruise right over Saddam's house, you know, it'll be like, what."

Despite the stoner talk, he's probably right. I pull out Zoe's photo. "Do they look anything like this?"

"No," says Emil.

Damn.

"They look exactly like that."

Oh.

After dinner we get in the car to take them home, and Ladonna says,"hey, your backseat's full of glass."

"Crap," Scully whispers, "I forgot!"

I turn to look at her. "Huh?"

"The window shattered."

"What?"

"It just broke. Right before you game to get me."

Not particularly normal. Lucky for me there's a place to vacuum that up right across the street.

When we get to the house (finally) and I unload Emil and Ladonna and their motorcycle moped thingy. Not very masculine. It fits in my trunk. Things you drive shouldn't fit in trunks.

"Thanks," says Emil. He hands me a tape from his pocket with a grin.

I kind of like this kid. "Later Dude!

Emil and Ladonna laugh as they walk up the driveway.

"What's that?" asks Scully when I get back in the car.

I put on my best quirky grin. "Evidence." I pop it in the tape player. Heavy metal. "Kids today, huh."

"You believe it all, don't you?"

Here we go. "Why wouldn't I?"

She grins, and I almost hear her laugh. "Mulder, did you see their eyes? If I were that stoned I..."

_If she were that stoned?_ "Ho-hoo. If you were that stoned, what?"

"Mulder, you could have shown that kid a picture of a flying hamburger and he would have told you that's exactly what he saw."

Yeah, but he's not the only one. "Alright, I wanna show you something." I pull out the photos I brought to compare UFOs pictures with in the ones people have taken over the years. I pull out the Roswell photo and hand it to Scully. "This is a photo, of a UFO that reportedly crashed in Roswell, New Mexico in 1947." She gives me a Look, but I don't want to debate Roswell right now. "Now I know, you don't believe that story but just hear me out. Now, Ellens Air Base, the same base that we're at right now, the same base, that for some strange reason, doesn't appear on your US government map, is supposedly one of the six sites where parts from the wreckage were shipped."

"Mulder, are you suggesting that the military is flying UFOs."

Please! "_No_, planes built, using UFO technology."

She almost appears to consider it. For about a second. "Mulder, come on. You've got two blurry photos, one of them taken almost _fifty_ years ago, and another one, you purchased today in a roadside diner. You're going out on a pretty big limb."

They look a lot alike. "Tell me, there isn't a remarkable resemblance."

"Tell me, one good reason why either of these photos is authentic."

How about lights in the sky? Doing impossible things? "You saw exactly what I saw in the sky tonight. What do you think they were?"

"Just because I can't explain it, doesn't mean I'm gonna believe they were UFOs," she says in the Voice of Unshakable Conviction. Or as close as she can get to it considering she's being an idiot.

Has she forgotten the definition of UFO? "Unidentified. _Flying._ Objects. I think that fits the description pretty well. Tell me I'm crazy."

"Mulder, you're crazy," she says without any malice at all. I like her. "And it still doesn't explain to me what happened to Colonel Budahas."

True.

* * *

When we get back to the motel, Scully goes to check the messages. I don't really pay it any mind until she comes running to my door. "You didn't come to raid my mini-bar, did you?" I ask when I jump up to let her in.

She smiles, and actually laughs a little. "You ready for _this_?"

What now? "What?"

"We got a message from Mrs. Budahas, her husband came home last night."

Wow.

After a shower and some coffee, we drive over to the Budahas' house to meet the man we came to find, which might put a kink in our missing persons case.

Mrs. Budahas opens the door as unhappily as she was last time. I don't have time to ponder this before we have to say something.

Scully speaks first. "We got your message."

Which is when I realize she's crying, which would actually make her _more_ upset than last time. "Mrs. Budahas, are you okay?"

"Come inside." She leads us into the living room.

"What is it?" Scully asks.

What's going on? "What? What's wrong?"

She leads us into the house, to the same room where we talked before. Her husband is there, painting a model airplane.

"_That_... is not my husband."

The resemblance is striking. Colonel Budahas looks up. "Honey, who are these people?"

I look over at the picture on the wall. Looks just like him.

"That is not him. That is not my husband. They've done something to him."

"What are you talking about?" Colonel Budahas asks, throwing down his model.

Time to try to defuse this. "It's okay, it's okay, just relax," they don't seem to be killing each other, so I continue, "well, I'm Special Agent Mulder, from the FBI. We're out here investigating your disappearance, Colonel Budahas." No reaction. "Wondering if you have any explanation of your whereabouts over the past four months."

He seems to think for a second. "I was in the hospital."

What hospital? "Here, on base?"

Another second. "I think so." He's having too much trouble with these.

Okay, memory test. Start simple. "Colonel Budahas, do you mind if I ask you your birth date?"

He sighs. "November 21st, 1948." No pause there.

I glance over at his wife, and she nods. "And the names of your kids?"

"Josh and Lesley, they're right there." Again, no pause. I glance back at the kids. They're staring at us.

I hear Mrs. Budahas whisper "Yeah."

His sweatshirt says Green Bay. Let's try something not in the records. "Green Bay fan."

"Yes sir."

Okay, Football. I can do football... I think. "Bet you remember the Super Bowl of" please let me get the year right "68, huh? Don Shandler."

He's angry now. Is that a symptom or is he just sick of this? "Kicked four field goals, Lombardy's last game. Why do I have to answer these questions?"

"It's not him." _Thank you_ Mrs. Budahas. Scully blinks at me, which I have no way of possibly interpreting into English.

Okay, work. We'll try work. "Colonel, Colonel Budahas, you're a, a pilot, isn't that right?"

"Yes sir."

What was it that Danny called it? An Immelman? "Bet you've flown just about everything with two wings. I got this hotshot pilot friend, who said that he could do Immelman at a sustained eight G's, huh, is that possible?"

He freezes. "I, I don't... I can't... Anita, I can't remember." He stands up and goes to his wife, but she backs away, crying, which is too bad because he looks completely panicked. Well, I guess I was right. Something is wrong here. Go me.

Mrs. Budahas keeps backing away. "No!" she yells, then starts sobbing.

Well, our work here is done, and I don't know what to do. He's not dangerous, I don't think. He's not himself, either. "Excuse me," I say, very clearly and calmly, before I book it out the door.

* * *

"Mulder, would you explain to me what's going on?" Scully chases me out the door and she is not amused.

Isn't it obvious? There's only one thing that could have happened here. "I think they re-wired that man's brain. Some kind of selective memory drain."

"The brain doesn't work like that, Mulder. You can't just go in and erase certain files." She's grumpy now.

Fine. "Then you explain it to me."

"There are types of amnesia th.."

This isn't amnesia and she knows it. "This is _not_ amnesia, I think it's something far more deliberate and insidious."

"All I'm saying, is that the science or medical technology to do what you are suggesting, does not exist."

But she's not sticking with the amnesia theory, so we'll call it a step in the right direction. "And neither does the technology to fly the aircraft we saw last night. Listen to me Scully, they can do this. That man, he should have known the answer to the question, it just wasn't in his head anymore." And so I get into the car and she gets in the other side and we're back to the motel, I guess, although God only knows what I'll do from there.

On our way back to the motel – and then what? I notice that there is a car behind me.

"Even if they could, why would they do such a thing?" Scully asks.

So he can't tell. "To control information. I think that after his psychotic episode, Colonel Budahas became a security risk."

"It couldn't just be that he had a nervous breakdown with a concommitive memory lapse."

That doesn't make a lot of sense. Not in someone like the Colonel. He's never washed out of anything "No, I think that men like Colonel Budahas are physiologically incapable of dealing with the stress of flying the aircraft we saw. Or doing those maneuvers, at those speeds. I mean we're talking about a technology that is so sensitive and advanced, that it's taken almost fifty years to make it work. _UFO technology_, Scully."

She chuckles. The car behind me is gone but two cars approach from the front. They pull up to us, blocking us from going either direction.

"What the hell is th-" Scully begins.

I'm gonna have to stop quick. "Hold on." I slam the brakes and pull to the side of the road. We don't have to wait long. They use their cars to block us and swarm our car. It's the Men in Black – seriously. Black suits, black ties. Nondescript. No identifying features, nothing to make them stand out in a crowd. One of them starts knocking on my window. "Please," he calls in a fairly unpleasant voice, "step out of the car."

I turn to Scully. "You think if maybe we ignore him, he'll go away?" He knocks again, louder. I guess not.

"Please, step out of the car."

It isn't worth a try. "Guess not." I hop out and go to pull my badge. "Special Agent Mulder, FBI."

I don't think they have a lot of respect for the Feds, because they push me up against the car before I have time to reach for my ID, all while I'm yelling, "Mulder, FBI," just on the off chance that'll help. Of course, they already knew who I was. They know everything. Except for what's in my pocket, I guess, because they're doing a pretty thorough search. Scully gets out of her side and gets the same treatment.

They open the car and start rummaging through it. Even our weapons are taken. The trunk opens and then I can see the man standing in front of it carefully exposing all the film in my camera. They go through Scully's briefcase and my folders, including taking the Roswell photo which any idiot could get from a book in about a thousand bookstores across America. I've ticked someone off. "You wanna tell me what this is about?" Someone punches me in the kidney. Nice.

"National security." Of course. "Now get in your car. You'll be escorted back to your motel. You will pack and leave town immediately, or assume the consequences of intense indiscretion."

And then they drive away.

So we go back to the motel and change and pack, and then I go over to Scully's room while she calls on the plates. She's on hold with someone named Gayle, so I stretch out and wait.

They're not giving me a lot of choice here, but I'm gonna humor Scully anyway. So I wait patiently while she checks the plates on the cars (no match). Once the pacing and waiting is over, she turns to me where I'm sprawled out on the bed. "So who were those guys?"

I've been giving that some thought. Emil and Ladonna have been breaking into the base for over a year and no one's cared. "I don't think it was those kids they were chasing away from the base last night, I think it was us. They knew we were coming before we ever arrived. And they returned Colonel Budahas as a decoy." We were never going to be allowed to investigate this. They even tried to warn me, I realize. Oh, she's gonna kill me. I sit up and look her in the eyes. "There's something I didn't tell you, Scully."

"Something _else_?"

Point taken. Moving on. "I was approached by a man in D.C. who warned me to stay away from this case, he didn't give me his name, and my phone was being tapped." I really should have at least told her that last bit.

"_What_!"

The pieces are finally starting to come together. There's nothing better for discrediting your witnesses than letting them see pieces. No one's going to believe two stoned kids, but two FBI agents? We can be believed and that's why we cannot be allowed to investigate this in an official capacity. It all makes sense now. "Why would they go to all this trouble? Out of a need for security." But what could they be hiding? There's only one way to know, but there's a reason most UFO photos look similar – they're of the same thing. Only mabye not an alien thing. "Security of what? I find myself pacing the room now. This is it. I'll have proof. I think there's a huge conspiracy here Scully. They've got a UFO here, I'm sure of it._" Our UFO. _"And they'll do anything to keep it a secret, including sacrificing lives and minds of those pilots, because what if that secret got out?" And I wait.

"_If_, _if_ that were true, it would be a _national scandal_."

But where would we get the technology? "No no, you're not thinking big enough, if it were true, it would be confirmation of the existence of extra terrestrial life."

She is on her feet now too. "Did you ever stop to think that what we saw was simply an experimental plane. Like the stealth bomber or, this Aurora Project. Doesn't the government have a right and a responsibility to protect it's secrets?"

The basic military debate, but it ends here and now. Reasonable secrets yes. Secrets that could save lives, not destroy them. "Yes, but at what cost, when does the human cost become too high for the building of a better machine?"

"Look, these are questions we have no business asking." If not us, who? But I keep my mouth shut. "Our kidnap victim is no longer outstanding. Let's get out of here Mulder, while _you_ still have a job." For a second there I thought she was gonna cry.

She's right, of course. I pick up Zoe's photo – ironically, the one the Men in Black didn't steal – and wave it in front of her. "Aren't you even curious?" She takes it from me and sits down on the bed. But she says nothing, which is what I thought she'd say. Better that way – for her to say nothing. And best if I leave her out of it. "I'm gonna shower, I'll pack and then, we'll get out of here." But I don't need a shower, and I'm packed enough.

The car keys are in my pocket and I remember exactly how to get to Emil's house. From there, they show me how to get onto the base, where the proof is. My career might end right there, but Scully will be in the clear and I'll have proven that some of my work is real. Maybe she'll be able to carry on like that.

I jump in the car and start the engine. What I didn't expect is Scully to come running. "Mulder, where are you going?"

I ignore her, despite the yelling coming from beside the car as I pull out of the parking lot and drive away.

* * *

Emil answers the door at his house, making me wonder if he even has parents.

"Dude, wicked! You're back!"

Not the brightest of the bunch, is he? "Yeah, Emil, I was wondering if you could give me a hand?"

"Like, you need me to hook you up?"

Does he even realize he just offered to get a FBI agent high? "No, I just need you to show me where to get onto the base."

Ladonna wanders by at this moment. "Yeah," she says, "we can show you. No problem."

I drive them back to the base with me and we all get out. Emil runs over and lifts up a corner of the fence that has lost it's attachment, hidden by weeds. "Right here."

I crawl through, but they don't follow. "Hey, aren't you guys coming?"

"No, we're, you know, we've only gone in at night."

"Okay, this spot you told me about where you watch the air show, how far is it?" I can see kind of a rough path they must have made by walking over and over. Subtle.

"Forty-five minutes," Emil volunteers.

Why that one spot? "Will I be able to find it?"

"Just stay on the path," says Ladonna. They probably squashed all the grass away.

Okay, but that's not what I really need. "And what about this other place you told me about, Yellow Base, where they hangar them."

The reaction is immediate. Both kids flinch. "Don't, don't even, it's like _ten miles_, nobody's ever, nobody's ever been that far."

I guess I better start. As I walk away, Ladonna calls "Hey, don't go past the edge of the tall weeds."

I hear some muttering behind me and then both kids call "HEY!" Sigh. I turn back.

"Did I tell you about the land mines and junk?" Emil seems perplexed.

Groan. "Yeah, Emil, you told me."

"Cool. Hey, good luck."

Good luck to you too kid. "Thanks, Emil."

He walks up the hill to where we parked his moped and for some reason I'm extremely proud to know him.

* * *

A ten-mile walk should take roughly three and a half hours. It's fairly smooth terrain, and not a very warm day, so it isn't too terrible physically, but always my thoughts return to Samantha, as they do with any tedious task.

Maybe that's why I hate my office so much lately. I have to be occupied all the time, and I don't have time anymore to dwell on the fact that I've lost my only sister. That she's gone and that I'm alone. I _don't_ think about her as much. I miss her more now than I did when I worked alone because now she's not as much a part of my thoughts because I spend all my time doing other things. _Productive_ things.

But now that I'm here, alone, I can remember that night – or what there is of it – over and over and over.

What I didn't tell Scully is that it was all my fault.

People don't see the burden I carry, but it really was all me. We were playing Stratego in the living room that night – November 27, 1973. It was almost nine o'clock. The Watergate hearings were on the TV, but we weren't really watching. Mostly we were waiting for _The Magician_. Or at least I was.

That's what the fight was about. _The Magician_ versus some lame movie she wanted to watch that I never did learn the name of. Mom and Dad were next door, and Samantha had gotten their permission, but I was the older brother and I was in charge and I wanted to watch _The Magician_.

She got up and changed the channel to some lame Western. I stood up too, towering over her. "Hey!" I yelled, "Get out of my life!"

You know how sometimes you say something and then you just _know_? Right then, I _just knew. _But I shook it off. It was stupid to think she would actually get out of my life. Not like she ever did anything I asked her. I changed the channel and she screamed in my ear.

I was undaunted. "I'm watching 'The Magician'."

And that's when the power went out. My twelve-year-old self turned on her immediately. "Now look, the fuse is blown."

And then the rattling started. After my hypnosis, I remembered disjointed images, bright light, trying to get Dad's gun but being unable to load it. And Samantha, screaming. Not like the scream she'd directed at me a minute before but the scream of terror pleading for me to help her.

But I couldn't. I couldn't even move.

I don't know if that was paralysis from fear or mind control.

Scully would probably say fear, but in the end it doesn't matter. She would probably say, also, that it's understandable, that I was just a child, and that I'm not blamable. But Samantha floated straight out the window into a blinding light and then she was gone and her screams faded and so did the light and that's when I could move again.

And if I had moved two seconds earlier I could have pulled her away, and saved her.

I can't help thinking that.

And now I'm at the edge of the tall weeds. It probably wasn't ten miles. I decide to wait here for dark before trespassing. I'm not stupid.

* * *

Dark is only an hour or two away, and I use the time to focus on the base itself. I can see a tarmac some kind, and buildings in the distance. There are people moving around but no sign, not even one, that anyone knows I'm here.

Once it's completely dark, I stand up. My legs are numb, and it takes a minute not to stagger, but as soon as I can walk, I walk onto the tarmac and head for the buildings in the distance. There's no cover. None at all. So I wait for someone to look out a window and spot me.

I guess they have motion sensors, because it doesn't even take that long before I see the light in the distance. It's a triangle – an aircraft.

_A UFO._

It hovers over me, and the lights on it's underside flicker on, right over my head. It's so bright that I have to cover my eyes, and then it simply flies away.

Before I get the chance to congratulate myself on my good luck, something sounds behind me. It's not an aircraft...I turn around...

Cars.

Two or more.

Full of soldiers all bent on capturing me. I don't even have time to run very far, and then they're on top of me. My first clear memory is being pinned to a stretcher and strapped on. Great.

Someone injects me with something over my objections, and the world fades away.

* * *

I come to in a hangar of some kind. There are men in white overalls everywhere, and a triangle under plastic on the other side of the room. And then I hear a voice.

"He's conscious. Give him some more."

And the world fades away again.

* * *

Someone shines a light in my eyes and then drops something into them. And it burns like a motherfucker.

I don't even notice losing consciousness this time.

* * *

I come to sitting in the back of a jeep full of soldiers with no clue how I got there. In fact, no clue where I am. In fact, no clue how I got to this place where I have no clue how I got here. Whatever I've been doing, it was probably a really stupid thing to do.

We reach some kind of gate in the middle of nowhere and drive through. I wonder why I'm not asking questions, and then I realize that I can't seem to speak. The world whirs when I move my head and I realize I'm still a little woozy. Maybe I fell off of something. But then I should be in an ambulance.

"Get out," says the soldier next to me, and somehow I manage to do that. I look around and realize Scully is standing next to a car facing us, holding a gun in her hand, so I head for her. She probably won't shoot me, I think, although I can't tell you exactly why that's so funny.

"Get in the car Mulder. Get in the car." Scully sounds tired, so I do what she says. I have to pass a man who seems familiar. I met him earlier – Paul. Paul Mossinger.

"I just wanna say, everything you've seen here is equal to the protection we give it. It's you who have acted inappropriately."

What did I _do_?

I climb in the car and Scully gets behind the wheel and drives away. "You okay, Mulder?"

I wiggle my fingers. All my parts seem to be working. I just hope she can tell me why I need to be worrying about that. "I think so. Scully I..."

"What?"

Put aside your pride, Mulder. "How did I get here?"

"Mulder, what do you remember?" said with the Voice of Dawning Fear.

This is what they did to Budahas, isn't it? "I need to see Colonel Budahas."

"Mulder, no. You should rest, you should-"

Uh uh. "Scully, I have to know."

* * *

When Mrs. Budahas opens her door, I know it's over. She won't even open it all the way, just a crack.

"We came by to see how your husband was doing," I tell her when she neglects to say anything.

"Oooh, he's fine, he's getting much better now."

I know what the answer's going to be before I ask. "Do you think, maybe, we could see him."

"Well, well he's resting now."

A male voice calls from the house. "Who is it now?"

She looks embarrassed, at least. "Thank you for your concern," she says, before slamming the door in our faces.

That's that, I guess. There's got to be something that we can do to help her. "They got to her Scully. They were here, they must have threatened her and Budahas..." Probably the threatened the kids. They're cute, they'd make a good threat.

"That's _enough_ Mulder! We _don't know anything_. Anything more than when we got here, and that's what I gonna write in my field report. Let's get outta here Mulder, as fast as we can."

She's right, I know.

* * *

The flight back is uncomfortable, to say the least. Scully tries to distract herself by reading a book and I keep concentrating on my lost memories. About halfway there, she looks up from her book and says, "Mulder, will you give it up already?"

I'm completely floored. "Why? What else should I be doing? I want to know what I saw, Scully."

"Mulder, if you don't remember, concentrating on it isn't going to help. You're more likely to remember if you just relax and think about something else for a while."

Which just illustrates the differences between us, I guess, because even though she's right I can't help focusing on what I've lost for the rest of the trip home.

* * *

A week later, it's still not any better. I can kind of remember whispering voices and a bright light if I really really concentrate. My last memory before the Jeep – which is a little foggy – is driving away from the motel to Emil's house.

During the lost time I probably got a detailed explaination of exactly what the whole conspiracy at Ellens is up to. Sadly, all I remember is a few fading seconds of light – and I can only recall it clearly if I go running or some other activity.

So I've been avoiding the office. Scully, I think, doesn't mind. The Bureau doesn't mind either if I want to spend all my time at their FBI-approved gym, so I spend as much time as I can running, playing basketball, swimming.

Anything to keep my memories.

I'm running on the track when my very own spy comes wandering toward me. I jog across the field to meet him, hoping he can tell me what I've forgotten. That's stupid, I know, but I can't help hoping.

"Your lives may be in danger."

Not a promising beginnining. "Why?" What have I gotten Scully into?

"Mmm, you've seen things that weren't to be seen. Care and discretion are now imperative."

Care and discretion? I don't even know what I saw! "I saw something I..."

"As I said, I can provide you with information, but only so long as it's in my best interest to do so."

What does that mean? "What is your interest?"

"The truth."

I'll give you some truth, you vague son of a - "I did see something, but it's gone, they took it from me, they erased it. You have to tell me what it was."

"A military UFO? Mr. Mulder, why are those like yourself, who believe in the existence of extraterrestrial life on this earth, not dissuaded by all the evidence to the contrary?"

That's an easy one. Just turn it around on him. "Because all the evidence to the contrary is not entirely dissuasive."

He smiles and nods. "Precisely." And then he walks away from me.

Mystery man or no, I want an answer. Just one. "They're here, aren't they?"

He stops dead and turns to face me. "Mister Mulder, they've been here for a long long time."

* * *

I return to the office that afternoon to see a finished report on my desk, waiting for my signature.

While not strictly necessary, It's good to have both agents sign off on these things. Scully is paying about as much attention to what I'm doing as she always does, which is to say none.

I flip through the report. There's no "Mulder's a crazy psychopath," or "Unfounded theories." Just a lot of "I don't know." She doesn't know what happened to me. She can't explain it – and she doesn't even try.

In a way, I think, she's sending me a message. It's okay to believe, she's telling me, as long as it's okay for her to not believe. And it's okay for her reports to reflect that – at least okay with the only person whose opinion matters to her – herself.

I sign the report. And then I chuck a pencil at the ceiling.


	3. Squeeze

This one is for the customers at work, who fill me with such great joy and such resounding dread.

I don't own the X-Files. Duh.

* * *

In June, the FBI grapevine mysteriously comes knocking from around the corner by the water cooler (really really not accidentally) to let me know that Jerry's screwed up.

Acutally, it's more, "Spooky ruined another one." Followed, I assume, by "That's it for Scully," although I didn't stick around to follow up on it. Poor Jerry.

Who am I kidding? Jerry and I haven't worked together in ages. Poor Scully.

The next week I hear a remark about "Spooky and the Mrs." in the cafeteria and I know. Scully's losing the respect of her peers working with me.

As much as I pretend I don't care, I don't want Scully to lose the respect of her peers. I have to get her out of the basement and that's all there is to it. My career's already ruined. No reason to ruin hers.

Strictly speaking, she's on a voluntary assignment, and if she were to transfer back to Quantico they'd pretty much have to let her.

Of course, this goal is not easy to accomplish. It's hard to see her coming into the office smirking like an idiot and quoting _Glengarry Glen Ross _(the movie, not the play) under her breath and not want her to stay. After our action-packed first cases, though, I do try to tone things down a bit. It helps that my personal Deep Throat has gone silent, and my sister is still missing with nary a peep and other than that we really have nothing to do but sit back, twiddle our thumbs, and wait.

A few things are going on, of course. I get asked to do some profiling – in the most minimal sense – for some bank robberies that are being tracked by an agent named Jack Willis (Scully looks really studious every time he calls but I don't know why) and Scully dutifully fills out her living will since she's now in the field, a process that takes an entire day for her to explain exactly what she wants in various circumstances, since I'm witnessing the thing.

What can I say? It ate up a day.

The NASA microwave survey gets canceled a month into the project, causing me to mope around for an entire week, much to Scully's confusion; and I have a call from some guy named Arlinsky at the Smithsonian who wants an opinion about a UFO photograph (fake). Mom guilt trips me into going on vacation to visit her for a week of depressing boredom as we tiptoe around each other trying not to talk. Yet another prankster starts sending me letters about yet another "my wife was kidnapped by aliens" hoax in January. Scully is still working with me. I thought for sure the New Year would bring a resolution for her to move out of the basement and get on with her life.

The bank robberies continue, and I get more involved in the profiling. Scully does a lot of autopsies to fill her time, but she always returns to the basement, all the way through May and into June. In fact, it's not until July that another genuine X-File makes it's appearance on our doorstep.

It begins with Scully coming back from lunch late, grinning like the cat that swallowed the canary, several goldfish, and the dog's favorite chew toy. "Guess what?"

I am busy cleaning barbecue sauce off my jacket, so I just mutter "What?" in her general direction.

"This man I went to the Academy with, Tom Colton, is working a case in Maryland that sounds like an X-File. Not one of the old ones either. We'll be able to watch it develop firsthand."

Shouldn't I be excited about this in her place? And why did she even bring it here? "So why don't we drive up there and take a look then?"

Something in her pauses, for just a second. "Sure." But she doesn't sound sure anymore. She sounds almost reluctant to bring me along, and I wonder what it is she's afraid will happen.

* * *

It's about an hour drive to Baltimore from Washington in which Scully tells me what little she knows about the case. "It's a murder, Mulder."

Helpful, she is. "What kind of murder?"

"Random victims, livers removed, no forced entry."

_Livers_ removed? "So where's the X-File?"

"Mulder, it's probably nothing."

We wouldn't drive to Maryland for nothing. "What's nothing?"

"They can't find the point of entry," she mutters.

She's kidding. "They can't what, Scully? I can't hear."

"There's no point of entry," she grumbles louder, checking the address against the numbers on the building next to us. "Two more blocks."

No point of entry. Livers removed. This sounds familiar – I think it's happened before, but I can't remember the details except that there's no arrest made and it's somewhere in the X- Files. I think it was a long time ago – and that that killer has to be dead. Doesn't he?

But then, if he can get into a locked room...

Scully parks the car and we enter an office building. In the elevator, she drops the reason she's uneasy. "I went to the Academy with the Agent in Charge – his name's Tom Colton."

I don't respond except with a raised eyebrow.

"Mulder, you should know he's a little... hesitant to work with you."

Spooky strikes again.

"It's not that he doesn't know your reputation –" we move out of the elevator and down a hallway toward the crime scene tape "- it's just that he's heard that you're a little unorthodox and he likes things by the book."

Not good enough. "So what you're saying is that he doesn't want me here because he knows my reputation."

She leads me into the office. "No, Mulder. He knows my reputation, and he asked me to join the case. When I told him I thought you should take a look, he agreed, but he was a little worried it was outside your purview." She sounds like she almost believes that explanation. I put on a glove and start giving the dead guy's desk a once-over, but it's obvious that someone's already done that.

I'm not letting her off the hook. "So why didn't they ask me?"

"They're friends of mine from the academy," she reminds me, "I'm sure they just felt more comfortable talking to me."

I know what she's not saying, but I'm gonna make her say it anyway. We've been dancing around it for the last year. "Why would I make them so uncomfortable?"

"It probably has to do with your reputation," she says, resigned to the fact that no matter how she tries to pretend it's not true, I'm always going to be Spooky.

But maybe she won't spend her life as Mrs. Spooky. "Reputation? I have a reputation?"

"Mulder, look. Colton plays by the book and you don't. They feel your methods, your theories are..."

She's finally come out and said it. Good on her. I'll be expecting her resignation any day. "Spooky? Do you think I'm spooky?"

"Agent Scully's in here sir," says a voice from the hall, and then a man about Scully's age walks in. He walks up to Scully and says, "Dana, sorry I'm late," without a glance at me, and I don't like him.

Scully tries to ignore the slight. "We just got here. Er, Fox Mulder, Tom Colton." We shake hands, and try to break each other's grips.

"So, Mulder, what do you think, does this look like the work of little green men?"

I hate people. Especially FBI people. "Grey."

"Excuse me?"

If he expects me to be an ass, I can play the part well. "Grey. You said green men, a Reticulan skin tone is actually gray, they're notorious for their extraction of terrestrial human livers." Inspiration strikes, born of desperation to make this asshole squirm. "Due to iron depletion in the Reticulan galaxy."

He blinks. That's all. "You can't be serious."

Yeah, well, I can't take this anymore. "Do you have any idea what liver and onions go for on Reticula?" I need to get away from this prick and have a look around. "scuse me."

Colton continues to talk to Scully, who I can tell is the one he really wants here anyway. "Dana, I've been thinking about this and I have a theory, might explain a lot, tell me what you think."

There's a small metal filing on a newspaper on the floor that I pick up with my tweezers.

"What if the guy enters..."

Right above it is a ventilation shaft. I pick up the fingerprint guy's brush and dust the cover of the shaft, because that's the only point of entry, isn't it. Windows won't open, door is an obvious no, and this is the only other hole in the wall, ceiling, or floor.

"Hold on a second. What in the hell's he doing?"

Making Colton squirm is just an added bonus.

"Err, that vent is six inches by about eighteen, even if a Reticulan could crawl through, it's screwed in place."

I pull the brush away to reveal the weirdest fingerprint that I have ever seen.

* * *

The drive back to Washington is tense. Scully is staring at the print like it will magically start talking and explain why it's three inches long and only half an inch thick. I choose not to interrupt her pondering. If she has any brain at all she'll get the hell out of Dodge.

* * *

But she still comes into work the next morning, after I've been here all night looking up that X-File. Lucky for her, I am now ready to report on it. Oh, how she must enjoy these reports.

She walks into the office and sits down in her chair, which I have placed next to mine in front of the miniscule light board. "Mulder, I don't know how Colton's going to deal with that fingerprint you found."

No hello, how'd you sleep. Nope, not from Scully. I pull out the X File. "Scully, this is a little bigger than Colton realizes."

"How so?"

I show her the fingerprint slides. "This is the print I took yesterday from Usher's office, these others are from an X-file. Ten murders, Baltimore area, undetermined points of entry, each victim had their liver removed. These prints were discovered at five of the ten crime scenes."

"Ten murders? Colton never mentioned-"

I cut her off. "Most likely, he's not aware of them. These two prints were lifted five years before he was born at Palhatton Mill. And these three were lifted probably, five years before his mother was even born."

"Are you saying, these prints are from the 1960's and the 1930's?"

Yeah, that's what I'm saying. I pull off my glasses and set them down on the desk as Scully gets up to pace around the room. "And fingerprinting was just coming into it's own in 1903, but there was a murder involving an extracted liver." It wasn't like I could have slept last night anyway.

She pushes away from me, from my light board, and from the insanity of what I'm proposing. "Of course." I don't know what kind of solace she's expecting to get from the walls behind the desk, but at the moment I have an autopsy photo of a murdered woman that some coroner thought might be Samantha, two crop circle photos, six UFO photos, and a couple of mug shots, so I don't think she'll be getting any comfort off that any time soon, but she's still staring at my wall like it contains all the answers to the known universe.

Time to get back to the good ol' FBI system. "Now that's five murders every thirty years. That makes two more to go this year."

She turns to face me. "You're saying these are copycats."

With really huge fingers. "What did we learn in our first day at the academy, Scully? Each fingerprint is unique, these are a perfect match."

"Are you suggesting that I go before the Violent Crime Section and present a profile declaring that these murders were done by _aliens_?"

What the hell? No. "No, of course not, I find no evidence of alien involvement."

"Well, what then? That, that this is the work of a hundred year old serial killer who is capable of overpowering a healthy six foot two _businessman_?"

It really is weird, isn't it? "And he should stick out in a crowd with ten inch fingers."

"Look, bottom line, this is _Colton's_ case."

No, it isn't. "Our X-file dates back to 1903, we had it first."

"Mulder, they don't want you involved. They don't want to hear your theories. That's why Blevins has you hidden away down here."

And for some reason, you won't leave me here to rot, Mrs. Spooky. "You're down here too. Look, why don't we agree to this, they'll have their investigation, we'll have ours and never the twain shall meet." She looks up at me as I stand next to her in my own private den of insanity and for just a second I think that somehow she's as stuck here as I am. I force the thought quickly away. "Agreed?"

* * *

So by the next day Scully had dutifully typed up her report and submitted it, and then she stopped by the office to tell me she was going home to sleep because she had to do a stakeout all night.

The only thing wrong with that is that it's a waste of time. Serial killers sometimes return to the scene, but not this one. He's already beaten the building. They should have had me do the profile. After all, I am the professional profiler in this office, am I not?

But nooo, Spooky's not good enough anymore.

She was gone before I had a chance to object to her stakeout.

* * *

I killed time until five and then went home but I can't focus on anything. And it's not like I can sleep anyway. So I drove over to Baltimore and park in the visitor parking lot down the street, then I walk up to George Usher's parking lot.

If you use the standard FBI stakeout model, there should be a car by each entrance. In this case that's every duct, drainpipe, fire escape, and garbage chute. I have to wander by a LOT of cars to find Scully, but I just try to make it obvious that I'm trying to be seen, and no one stops me.

She's sitting in her car when I approach, talking on the walkie. And that's when I realize how stupid I'm being. Didn't I want her out of the basement? Didn't I want her to leave before I ruin her career the way I've ruined my own? And here I am, trying to stop her from doing real work?

I'm an idiot.

I turn aside before she sees me, taking my frustrations out on an innocent beer can, before it hits me. I've just made a scary noise in a garage full of tense FBI agents looking for people who make scary noises.

Shit.

So I run. The idea that they can't catch me is ludicrous, but if I made it in I should be able to make it out okay once I get off this level. I jump through a convenient hole in the wall and keep running, but -

Click.

That's a gun.

Pointed by Scully, though. I raise my hands anyway. "You wouldn't shoot an unarmed man, would ya copper?"

She heads away from me, annoyed. "Mulder, what the hell are you doing here?"

Might as well fulfill the original mission. "He's not coming back here, his thrill is derived from the challenge of seemingly impossible entry. He's already beaten this place, if you'd read the X-file on the case, you'd come to the same conclusion."

"Mulder, you are jeopardizing my stakeout."

I give up. So I make a peace offering. "Seeds?"I ask, holding out my bag of sunflower seeds. She ignores me, so I continue my lecture. "You're wasting your time, I'm going home."

I can't believe I just drove an hour to tell Scully she's wasting her time.

Which is about when I hear the noise. Kind of a metallic bang type thing. I follow the sound and hear something moving – and see a duct wiggling.

I need Scully.

She's about to get back in her car when I find her, but she responds right away when I tell her, "Scully, call for backup and get over here."

I don't even hear the call, but I do know she follows. I wait until she is standing around the corner from the duct with me and point to the one that's wiggling – like she can't see. "In there."

We both approach, cautiously. She points her gun and yells, "Federal Agent, I'm armed. Proceed down the vent, slowly."

Someone's foot kicks open the hatch and a man exits. Several more agents come running, Colton included. Random people in suits arrest him, and Scully was right.

Scully was right.

I was wrong.

I turn to Scully. "You were right."

* * *

They read the man his rights and take him to the local PD. Colton has him fingerprinted while I grab my files out of my car. Eugene Victor Tooms does not have ten-inch fingers, but I make a quick dash upstairs anyway.

I scan my prints into the computers and pull up the fingerprint matching program. There they are, side by side. The problem, as far as I can see, is that they're a radically different shape.

Sometimes prints get lifted off of something weird and we have to reshape them, so the computer will allow you to change the shape of a print. I access that feature, stretching Tooms' print until it's the same size as the one from my X-File.

Match.

Well how about that.

So I dash back downstairs. Colton is just about to administer a polygraph. While he's out in the hallway talking to the press, or his boss, or someone he feels he needs to impress, I duck into the room where the polygraph is being set up.

"Excuse me, can I see the questions list please?" I ask the woman setting up the machine.

"Who are you?"

"Agent Mulder. I've been working the case and there's a couple of things I want to make sure get asked."

"And you don't want the pretty boy to forget, huh? Well, go right ahead," she tells me, "hit me." She pulls out a pad of paper and a pen.

Here we go. "I want to ask if he's over one hundred years old-" she raises an eyebrow, "And if he was ever in Palhatton Mill-" the eyebrow lowers- "In 1933."

She sets down the pad and paper. "What's your name again?"

"Special Agent Fox Mulder."

"Well, Spooky," she says, "I'll ask your questions, but the answers won't tell you jack."

* * *

"Is your full name Eugene Victor Tooms?"

"Yes."

We're standing in the observation booth watching the test.

"Are you a resident of the state of Maryland?"

"Yes."

"Are you an employee of the Baltimore Municipal Animal Control?"

"Yes."

A good examiner will never add inflections to the questions she asks. That's what makes these observations extremely dull.

"Is it your intent to lie to me about anything here, today?"

"No."

"Were you ever enrolled in college?"

"Yes."

"Were you ever enrolled in medical school?"

"No."

"Have you ever removed a liver from a human being?"

"No."

The fact that he doesn't even flinch when we ask him that tells me something. He's too calm. He's prepared.

"Have you ever killed a living creature?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever killed a human being?"

"No."

Again, no flinching. Nothing.

"Were you ever in George Usher's office?"

"No."

"Did you kill George Usher?"

"No."

"Are you over one hundred years old?"

Here we go.

"That must be a control question," says Colton.

Time to break that news. "I had her ask it."

Scully, sitting next to me, doesn't bat an eye.

"No."

"Have you ever been to Palhatton Mill?"

"Yes."

"In 1933?"

Scully turns to look at me with an unreadable expression.

Colton twitches but stays silent.

"No."

"Are you afraid you might fail this test?"

"Well, yes, because I didn't do anything."

"That concludes the test. I'll discuss your results with Agent Colton and you'll be notified later today."

* * *

When they lead Tooms back to his cell, Colton turns on me. "What the hell was that?"

I can't think of a good response that he'll accept so I just shrug.

"Shit." He pushes by me and goes into the next room. The rest of us follow at a distance. "Did he pass?" he asks the examiner.

"Well, the results indicate zero deviation from baseline."

I move over to the table to get a better look.

"He nailed it, A plus, as far as I'm concerned, the subject did not kill those two people." She's already moving the results away from where I'm sitting so I stand up and look over her shoulder.

The detective walks in to tell us, "Maintenance people at the office building, confirm the call to animal control regarding a bad smell. They found a dead cat in the ventilation ducts on the second floor."

"Well, that's that," says Colton.

"It still doesn't explain what he was doing there that late at night," Scully points out.

"So, he's one of the few civil servants we have with initiative, and we busted him for it," Detective Johnson says.

Scully rolls her eyes. "He was crawling up an air duct, by himself, without alerting security."

Colton jumps in. "Dana, he passed the test, his story checks out, he's not the guy. It doesn't mean that your profile's incorrect."

But I've finally got a good look, and Tooms didn't pass everything. "Scully's right, it is the guy."

"Whatta you got, Mulder?" asks Johnson. He sounds exasperated, and I haven't even had time to annoy him yet. Colton must be talking.

I took a course in interpreting polygraphs at Quantico, even if I never get to use it. "He lied on questions eleven and thirteen, his electrodermal and cardiographic response nearly go off the chart."

Detective Johnson loses his friendly tone. "Is number eleven the hundred year old question? Well, let me tell ya, I had a reaction to that stupid question. And what the hell is this Palhatton Mill thing?"

But they didn't know it had happened before. "Two murders with matching MO's occurred in Palhatton Mill in 1933, just look at the chart."

"My interpretation of those reactions..." buts in the examiner.

The detective is undeterred. "I don't need you or that machine, telling me if Tooms was alive in 33."

A valid point. Still, "He's the guy."

"I'm letting him go."

The detective and the examiner leave us to it. Colton turns to Scully. "You comin'?"

This is her big chance to save her career.

"Tom, I wanna thank you for letting me put in some time with the VCS, but I am officially assigned to the X-files."

"I'll see what I can do about that."

"Tom, I can look out for myself."

"You said Mulder was out there... that guy's insane." Colton stomps out.

She said I was out there? We walk out of the room together and head down the hall to the stairs.

"You knew they wouldn't believe you, why did you push it?"

A good question. I guess I just enjoy it. "Maybe I thought you caught the right guy." But she deserves the whole answer. "And maybe I run into so many people, who are hostile, just because they can't open their minds to the possibilties, that sometimes the need to mess with their heads, outweighs the millstone of humiliation."

We stop at the stairs. "It seems like you were acting very territorial-" she looks down suddenly. "I don't know, forget it." She tries to turn away.

On impulse, I reach out and touch the necklace she's wearing. Some kind of saint's medal or somesuch. Sometimes it's the most unexpected people. "Of course I was. In our investigations, you may not always agree with me but at least you respect the journey. And if you wanna continue working with them, I won't hold it against you."

And then I climb the stairs and leave her there to make her own choice, and I'm not at all unhappy to hear her shoes clomping along behind me.

"Er, I don't know, you must have something more than your polygraph interpretation to backup this bizarre theory and I have to see what it is."

* * *

And so I take her to the fingerprint lab and pull up the prints from today. "These are Eugene Tooms' prints." I isolate the left middle finger. "This is the fingerprint they took from Usher's office," I pull up that print, "it matches the old ones from the X-files. Obviously no match, but what if, somehow..." I do the stretching thing I did earlier.

Match 100.

"How could that be?"

How the hell should I know? It's weird. "Only thing I know for certain is, they let him go."

* * *

That night, a businessman is murdered just outside the city limits with his liver removed. Since we're off the case, I have to wait to hear it on the morning news with the rest of Baltimore, which is why Colton and his goons have us beat long before we can get there. As we approach the door, I can hear Colton ordering a check on liver transplants.

Liver transplants.

"C'mon," a saner head replies, "it was ripped outta there."

"Look at this point, I'm willing to give any theory a shot." And that's when we walk in the door. "Any sane theory," he amends. "I'm sorry Dana, but I only want qualified members of the investigating team at the crime scene."

Asshole. "What's the matter Colton, you worried I'm gonna solve your case?" I try to walk farther inside, but he gets in my way. Jerk.

"Tom," Scully intervenes, "We have authorized access to this crime scene. A report of you obstructing another officer's investigation might stick out on your personnel file."

And then Colton moves out of my way. Wow, she's really got him figured out huh?

"Look, Dana, whose side are you on?"

"The victim's."

Score one for Dana Scully.

They found a Tooms Special Print on the mantel. He must have come in the chimney. And just above that... four little dots in the dust on the mantel.

The victim needed a maid as much as I do. Also, the killer took a trophy.

Scully has the preliminary report from somewhere already. "The victim is a Thomas Werner, single, white..."

What does it matter? Won't make him any less dead. And I know who killed him. "It's Tooms." I point to the print. And then I point to the little indentations. "And he took something."

* * *

Next step? Look up Eugene Victor Tooms. Which means back to the microfiche and back on the Dramamine. Two hours later, I've found him on a census. In 1903. Doesn't list his age.

Scully wanders in about then. "Baltimore PD checked out Tooms' apartment, it was a cover. No one has ever lived there and he hasn't shown up for work since he was arrested."

But his address in the census is the same as the 1933 murders. 66 Exeter Street, Baltimore, Apartment 103.

"I found him. How do we learn about the present, we look to the past. I think this is where it all began in 1903 on Exeter Street." I point out the address. "Now look at the address of that first murder in 1903."

She shifts some papers. "Apartment 203. He killed the guy above him."

Liver anyone? "Maybe, his neighbor played the victrola too loud."

"Well, this must be Tooms' great grandfather."

Yeah. "What about the prints?"

"Genetics might explain the patterns, it also might explain the sociopathic attitudes and behaviors. It begins with one family member, who raises an offspring, who raises the next child."

That's a stretch. The prints are a perfect match. "So what is this, the Anti-Waltons?"

"Well, what do you think?"

"I think what we have to do is track Eugene Tooms, there's four down and one to go this year. If we don't get him right now, the next chance is in uhh..." Mental math is escaping me.

"2023."

Precisely. "And you're gonna be head of the bureau by then. So I think you have to go through the census, I'm gonna plow through this century's marriage, birth, death certificates, and..." Why not swallow my pride - "You have any Dramamine on you by any chance 'cause these things make me seasick."

This whole search, however, is evil. We can't find his birth, his marriage, or a death. For hours. After the fifteenth spool of film, I turn to Scully. "Anything?"

"Nope, he disappeared off the face of the earth. You?"

Even worse. "Never was born, never married, never died." Kinda queasy.

"At least in Baltimore County. No, I did find one thing though, it's the current address of the investigating officer at the Palhatton Mill murders in 1933."

Not a smoking gun, but maybe it's something. "Where is he?"

"The Lynne Acres retirement home. I think it's across town, judging by the address.

* * *

Scully's map reading skills are inferior to mine, however, and we are forced to detour several miles out of our way to reach the nursing home. The place smells of whatever that nasty cleaner is they use in hospitals, and something else – probably something intended to "improve" the smell designed by someone with no nose. A show of ID and a request at the desk gets us to the room of one Frank Briggs. He's got to be about eighty, confined to a wheelchair, and I hope more coherent than the guy muttering 'The Twelve Days of Christmas' to himself in the hallway.

Nursing homes suck.

A nurse walks us to his room. "Frank?" she calls, "you have some visitors."

"Come in!" he replies, which gives me hope.

"These are some FBI agents that came to visit you. Isn't that nice?" she asks. Bitch.

"Yes, yes, very nice," he agrees, nodding. She smiles a perfunctory little smile and leaves us alone. Frank gestures to the single bed. "Sit down."

We sit.

"I've waited twenty-five years for you." The jovial old man is gone.

Scully is taken aback. "Sir?"

"I called it quits in 1968 after, forty-five years as a cop. And those killings at Palhatton Mill. I was a sheriff then and, I'd seen my share of murders, bloody ones. But I could go home and, pitch a few baseballs to my kid and never give it a second thought, you gotta be able to do that. You'd go crazy, right?" Something about that hits me. I don't go home and pitch baseballs to my kid. I don't have a kid. Or a family. Or anything of the kind. I'm thinking maybe I'll get a fishtank. I nod, not because I know what Frank's talking about, but because I'm living the other side of the coin. I'm probably halfway to insanity without even knowing it. "But those murders in Palhatton Mill, when I walked into that room, my heart, went cold, my hands, numbed. I could feel... IT."

IT? Like from _A Wrinkle in Time_? "Feel what, Frank?"

"When I first heard about the death camps in 1945, I remembered Palhatton Mill. When I see the Kurds and the Bosnians, that _room_ is there, I tell ya. It's like all the horrible acts that humans are capable of, somehow, gave birth to some kind of, human... _monster._ That's why I say I've been waiting for you." He gestures to a behind him. "There's a box in the trunk here, get it for me, would you please."

It's not hard to find. A cardboard box and some blankets are the only things in there.

"Now this, is all the evidence I've collected, officially and unofficially."

"Unofficially?" Scully adds, skeptically.

"I knew the murders in 63 were by the same... _person_ as in 33. But by then, they had me on a desk, pushing papers and they wouldn't let me anywhere near the case."

Scully peeks in the box and pulls out a jar of something gross. "A piece of the removed liver?"

"Yes, but you know, that's not the only trophy he took with him. Family members reported small personal affects missing in each case. A hairbrush in the Walters murder, a coffee mug in the Taylor murder."

He takes trophies. "Have you ever heard the name, Eugene Victor Tooms?"

"Humh, when they wouldn't bring me aboard in 63 I - I did some of my own work. I took these surveillance pictures. This... is Tooms." That's our guy. Looks exactly the same. "'Course, that was him thirty years ago." Oh, Frank, you don't know what you've stumbled into here. "And _this_, is the apartment where he lived. It was located at..."

I bet I know. "66 Exeter Street?"

"Right. That's it, right there." He even took a picture of the building and put it in the file. Good man.

* * *

66 Exeter Street has seen better days. Compared to the old man's picture, it's a dilapidated old dump.

We have probable cause as far as I'm concerned, and it's condemned, so walking in is no problem, but there's something about that moment, when I open that door and we shine our flashlights in – like that instant will be with us for a long, long time. I don't know what to make of it.

Apartment 103 is an empty room with a kitchen and bathroom attached. It looks like my apartment, only lacking furniture. Except for an old mattress leaning against the wall and the feeling of... evil.

"The old man was right, you can feel it," I tell Scully, but she ignores me. We walk into the room and look around. It smells like decay.

"There's nothing here."

Except a moldy mattress. With... hey, is that a hole back there? "Check this out." I push the mattress down. Yep, hole. "What's down here?" I ask Scully, as if she could possibly know.

"I don't know." She crawls inside. "Let's find out."

We climb down a ladder and find what looks like some kind of cave. "Just an old coal cellar," says Scully, and I have to agree. We wander through until my flashlight comes across a table full of objects of some kind – old and new.

"Somebody having a garage sale," I tell Scully, and that's when I notice something. I pick up one of the objects to check my theory. "This is the shape from Werner's mantel."

"Frank said he collected trophies."

There's some kind of damage to the wall up ahead. This is just gross. "Does he live in here?" Only it's not damage, I notice. It was built onto the wall.

"It looks like the wall's deteriorating."

"No, somebody made it," I tell her, and we head for the... whatever it is. It reminds me of a beaver dam, or maybe the tunnels those ants in Africa build. "This is a nest, look, it's made out of rags and newspapers." I can see some of the writing.

Scully points to the gap at the same time I really notice it. "This looks like the opening, think there's anything inside?"

I reach for the opening and something slimy gets on my hand. Ew.

"Oh my God, Mulder, it's smells like, I think it's bile."

Oh, gross.

"Is there any way I can get it off my fingers quickly without betraying my cool exterior?" I ask her, trying not to panic as I flick my fingers.

Ew ew ew.

"No one could live in this."

This is just gross. "I don't think it's where he lives, I think it's where he hibernates." In grossness.

"_Hibernates_?" If I had to classify her tone of voice it would be fearful, or maybe doubtful, as in doubtful of my sanity.

First rule of hibernation? You build a den. A gross den. "Just listen, what if some genetic mutation could allow a man to awaken every thirty years."

"_Mulder_."

No. He got bile on me, and it's gross. So I'm talking now. "And what if the five livers could provide him sustenance for that period. What if Tooms is some kind of, twentieth century, genetic mutant." This has to be my lamest theory ever, and also one of my most badly stated, but _you_ try coming up with something that makes more sense given the evidence.

"In any case, he's not here now and he's gotta come back."

A good point. "Well we're gonna need a surveillance team." Prepped for ew.

"Yeah, that'll take some finagling."

"Well you go downtown and see what you can finagle, I'll keep watch." Look but don't touch, Mulder.

On the way out, Scully suddenly gasps. "Oh, wait, I'm snagged on something, oh, it's okay, I got it."

We climb the ladder the hell out of there and Scully goes back by car to get someone to come watch the building. The whole time I'm waiting, there's no sign of Tooms.

* * *

Scully calls me after fifteen minutes to tell me that I should expect two agents named Kramer and Kennedy to come relieve me, and then she and I will be back on duty in eight hours.

The agents show up half an hour later to take over. "It's about time."

"So, who're we looking for again?" One of them asks.

"Eugene Tooms, he's unarmed but consider him dangerous. Scully and I'll be back to relieve you in eight hours if he doesn't show, right here." Wait for it, wait for it...

"You got it, _Spooky_." They both chuckle.

* * *

I go home for a shower and then run out for some food before returning to Baltimore. Quick drive, luckily. When I get there, no one's in the car. No Scully. No Kramer and Kennedy. No Colton, thank God, but I know he's responsible. Or irresponsible, as the case may be. "Where is everyone?" I ask. "Scully?" But I already know.

I run inside and into 103. Down the stairs and behind the mattress and down the ladder and into the coal cellar and there's the table with the trophies and there's a new one. Scully's saint's medal – Saint Jude, patron saint of lost causes. And law enforcement. "Dammit."

And then I run up, and out of the building, and back to my car. And I wish I had a siren.

I try to call her all the way, but there's no answer no matter how much I scream at the ringing phone. None at all. I make the drive in thirty minutes, praying that I won't find her dead with her liver removed in her own home. Some things are too horrible for words – including that sight that I'm not able to face seeing. I pull up outside and run in. _Please be alive Please be alive Pleasebealivepleasepleaseplease..._

I break down the door and run in. _"SCULLY!"_

There's a sound in the bathroom. I run in just in time to point the gun at Tooms before he can jump out the window. He grabs Scully and tries to choke her, but I get a cuff on one wrist and he elbows me. Hard. Scully jumps in while I'm down, and manages to handcuff him to the tub. Of course I doubt that will hold him for long, but I grab my gun again and point it at him. We're both out of reach now, and if he moves, I'll shoot.

"You alright?" I ask Scully.

She nods.

"He's not gonna get his quota this year," I tell her.

She nods again. I hand over my phone. "Call the police," I tell her, "your phone's not working."

She gulps and dials. "Yes, this is Special Agent Dana Scully, I need someone to come quickly..." she makes the standard request for backup from the local P.D. and then calls Colton.

"Tom, hi, it's Dana, look, Eugene Tooms just broke into my apartment -"

Indistinct angry yelling can be heard from the phone.

"No, he tried to attack me, it certainly _looked_ like he wanted to rip out my liver, but since I'm still alive I can't be sure..."

More yelling.

"Yes, Mulder caught him but you should – Tom? Tom?"

Dial tone.

* * *

They end up taking him in for evaluation, which guarantees that they won't be giving him a trial anytime soon. Upon entry, he was given a physical, and they faxed me the results.

Very interesting results.

When Scully gets to the hospital, I'm observing Tooms from the corridor. He's doing something that involves licking newspaper. My guess is building another nest. "Look at him, he's building another nest," I point out.

"You'll be interested to know that I've ordered some genetic tests. The preliminary medical exam revealed multiple physiological abnormalities."

Yeah, so the report said. "All these people putting bars on their windows, spending good money on hi-tech security systems, trying to feel safe. I look at this guy and I think, why bother?"

She doesn't answer me, and we both leave the building. Halfway down the front walk, though, she finally pipes up.

"We bother because we want to fix it, Mulder. That's why I became a doctor."

I suppose that's why she's still in the basement.


	4. The Jersey Devil

Eugene Tooms attacked Scully on July 24 and a week later we had the report signed and corrected for spelling errors and ready to go. I's dotted, T's crossed, and so on.

Man, was that boring.

We tried, we really did. Toom's physical was strange enough to warrant further study, but somehow his jackass lawyer managed to get the results of the DNA tests we ordered withheld. Which meant that we couldn't prove any of my theory – all we had was his attack on Scully to keep him in the psych ward. And I know psych wards – they're overcrowded things, which means eventually he'll get released.

So the report we filed with Blevins said something along the order of, "We think this is the guy, the murders have stopped, no evidence, Agent Scully cannot confirm or deny." I can tell that Blevins is just gonna _love_ that. He's a loving kind of guy, Blevins.

Suffice to say: by the 31st, we were done with this case and back to throwing pencils at the ceiling. Or at least we would have been had Scully not come down with a chronic case of clean-the-desk.

It all started when I got to work the following day armed with a fresh box of #2s, to find Scully in the hallway with my slide projector cart. Only my slide projector wasn't on the cart. It was empty.

"Scully," I asked, "what are you doing?"

She gave me the look you give someone when they catch you eating chocolate at a health-food symposium. "Just getting some supplies, Mulder." She nodded at the cart. "I needed the wheels."

She's cracked. "Oh...kay...," I replied. I tried to smile convincingly at her and headed into the office.

Scully returned ten minutes later with my cart loaded with garbage bags, cleansers of various scents, and paper towels. "Okay, Mulder," she said, "the time for pencil darts is over. We are going to clean this office. Do you know how many germs and molds love to grow in the dark and the dank?"

I couldn't think of anything to do but stare.

"Mulder!"

Focus, Fox. "Scully, um... why now?"

"Because we have the time, Mulder. I'm sick of working in this unhealthy environment. God only knows what I've been exposed to..."

She continued on that vein for quite some time, scrubbing out her desk drawers in an energetic manner. But I knew why she was really doing it. It doesn't take a rocket scientist – just someone who's read a psychology textbook. She was cleaning her desk because of Tooms. Because of what Tooms did to her. I felt, very strongly, that that sucked. Scully deserved better than that.

Oh well, I'll just have to try harder to keep her safe. Just because it happened once doesn't mean it'll happen again. She's an FBI agent – She lives for danger. And eventually she'll get past it and never ever get attacked in her own home again.

So why do I feel so uneasy?

Scully cleaned the entire back area of the office before the next week. She straightened the files in their drawers and made me shift the cabinets to scrub the walls behind them. She cleaned all the drawers and mopped the floor, possibly for the first time ever in the history of that floor. I know it hasn't been done since I worked here, for example.

I was hesitant to come in on Monday. What if she was still cleaning? But instead, she isn't there.

Well, maybe she took a personal day. She deserves one. This wacko almost ripped out her liver.

Give me a chance to get back to my work. This morning, the gunmen called me up to tip me off that a woman had given an interview about being abducted by aliens to a magazine. I picked one up on the way in and pulled it out to read through her story while I wait for something better to do.

Anything is better to do than, say, watch Scully go quietly nuts.

The door opens, and there it is. Scully, in all her Scullyish glory, with an extremely amused look on her face.

Amused?

Which is about when I realize how this looks. I'm sitting at my desk reading "Hanky Panky" magazine. Not that I don't have an entire drawer of porn in the bottom left, but this is right out there in public where any Scully could just walk in – business hours and everything.

"Working hard Mulder?"

I turn the magazine around so she can see. "This woman claims to have been taken aboard a spaceship and held in an anti-gravity chamber without food and water for three days." And the picture looks like the anti-gravity had an effect too.

"Anti-gravity's right." I chuck the magazine at the desk. I hate when she reads my mind. "I hate to interrupt your serious investigation, but I just heard a story that'd just about take your knees out."

Reeeeealy? No cleaning? "What's that?"

"They found a body in the New Jersey woods yesterday, missing it's right arm and shoulder. They think they may have been eaten off, by a human."

Wow. A real Jersey Devil. "Where in New Jersey?"

"Just outside Atlantic City."

That fits, but she'll have an explaination. "Not an uncommon place to lose a body part. They think it's the mob?"

"It was a homeless man. There doesn't seem to be a motive."

Well, no motive usually screams X-File. Also, it happened before – in 1947. I grab my jacket. "You feeling lucky Scully?"

"Relative to whom?" The file is right where I left it in the drawer by my desk. "It's not our case Mulder, the local police are handling it." I hand her the file. "An X-File?"

Yes, yes it is. "Ever hear of something called The Jersey Devil?"

"Yeah, it's a beast that's supposed to come out of the woods and attack cars, right. Kind of like an East Coast Bigfoot."

Close enough. We have the drive to Atlantic City to figure this out. "Read the file about the case in 1947."

She follows me out of the office. "Save me the trouble."

We get in the elevator. "Do you know the story of the Jersey Devil?"

She nods. "My brother told me about it when I was a kid. Something about cursed kids living in the woods."

Something like that. "Well, there's a couple of different legends. One was about a woman named Mrs. Leeds, whose thirteenth child was born with horns and hooves and ate all the other children and the parents before climbing out the chimney to begin terrorizing travellers on the local roads. The Devil is said to live near Winslow, New Jersey, but we don't really know what it is. Sightings go back to the 1700s. It's been blamed for killing livestock and people. Which brings me to the X-File."

The elevator doors open and we head into the bullpen to get our car rented.

"1947, family watches dad get dragged off into the woods, cops find dad with a few appendages gnawed off. Cops corner a large naked man in the woods and gun im down." We stop at the equipment desk. "autopsy shows human flesh and bones in the man's large intestine. A beast man." Doreen turns to look at me. "Requisition for a car please."

"Is the autopsy report in here?"

I take the requisition form and begin filling it out. "No, the original disappeared from the Patterson PD's files a few years after the incident. But there is a statement from the attending pathologist."

"Mulder it's the same story I've heard since I was a kid. It's a folk tale, a myth."

I never thought it was a myth. "I heard the same story when I was a kid too, funny thing is, I believed it." I hand in my form and get the keys. "Thanks Doreen." I turn back to Scully. "Fact is, we got a cannibalized body in New Jersey, someone or something out there is hungry."

And as far as I'm concerned, that's that. I head for the garage.

Scully catches me halfway to the door. "Mulder, how do you know it's the Jersey Devil? It could be anything."

She doesn't get it, does she? "But no one knows what the Jersey Devil is. So it might as well be."

Scully sighs and follows me to the garage.

* * *

The coroner, Dr. Glenna Santos, greets us in her office in the typical way of a coroner. "So, you're here to see the body with the arm eaten off?"

I love coroners. Straightforward. Like Quincy.

Scully looks taken aback. "Yes..." she replies. Even though she's a pathologist herself, she hasn't spent much time dealing with her own kind, I guess.

Glenna goes over to the morgue drawers and pulls out a body. "Er, they say animals can develop an appetite for human flesh but, this is no animal. You see the teeth marks, just below the clavicle, they're human."

She takes off the gloves she put on without my even noticing and steps away to let Scully take a look.

Huh. I hate bodies. "Who found the body?"

"Park Ranger."

Scully takes a look at the bite marks while I wander, looking for anything odd. Not that I'd really know.

"Was he alive when it happened?" she aks.

"Well, it's hard to tell." I examine the toe tag. "There's a scull fracture but no sign of a struggle, his blood alcohol level was up, probably never knew what hit him."

What hit him, anyway? "Any ideas about that?"

"The size of that bite mark, I'd say..."

"I want this on the QT," someone says, and I can feel the air chill as the Local Territorial Detective approaches.

"...large adult male," finishes Glenna as someone unseen promises to do his best. The Detective walks into the room and gives me the "I hate you, you unwelcome meddler" look. I know it well. "Er, Detective Thompson is handling the case."

"Glenna?" he asks, though he's looking at me.

Scully steps in, waving her I.D. "Hi, I'm Special Agent Dana Scully and this is Agent Fox Mulder."

"I don't remember anybody calling the FBI in on this."

Terrif. "Well we're not here on an official capacity, Agent Scully's a medical doctor, we heard about your victim and, she thought she might take a look."

"I'm sorry, I'm gonna ask you to leave. We have an investigation."

Glenna's on our side. "For God's sakes Tommy, this is no time to get pissy."

"We have jurisdiction here."

He's gonna kill me. I hope he chooses something painless. "Any suspects yet Detective?"

"I don't work for you sir, and unless you hear different from the Attorney General, er, this case is a local matter."

I'm about to retort, but... "Agent Mulder, we should go."

Right. Breathe. "There's no need to get bent outta shape," I tell the detective.

"On the contrary, I think I've been exceedingly polite."

And now we're in a staring match. Stupid bastard's not worth my time. I turn away and leave.

We get to the car and hop back in to drive back to Washington. "So what's eating that guy?"

"He was perfectly in his rights. The FBI has no overriding jurisdiction in a murder case. Anyway, you'd feel the same way if someone was horning in on your work."

Except I'm the only one who wants this job. "Yeah, chances are he's without a clue. He'll probably be scratching his head when they bring the next body in."

"You missed your opening Mulder, you could've really humiliated him and told him who the perpetrator was The Jersey Devil." Said with irony. She's got quite a sense of humor – before her, everyone but me treated my FBI pariah status as deadly serious.

I'm not quite done here, I realize. "Hey whadda you say we grab a hotel, take in a floor show, drop a few quarters in the slot, do a little digging on this case."

"You're kidding, right?"

We're in Atlantic City! Come on, let's enjoy it, take a poke around. Have some FUN. "Okay, we can skip the floor show."

"Mulder I have to be back in D.C."

For what? "What you got a date?"

"No, I have my godson's birthday party at 6:30." Can't argue with that, I guess. More for me. I chuck the keys over the car at her. "What are you doing?"

"A little poking around, maybe make a weekend out of it."

I head for the nearest motel – the Galaxy Gateway -, and behind me, I hear Scully complaining about the length of the drive and the traffic, but she doesn't ask me to come back.

I drop by the casino across the street for dinner, and then check the phone book for the number for Parks Services.

"Parks Services, Rosette speaking."

Another day, another secretary. "Rosette, this is Special Agent Mulder with the FBI. I need to speak to the ranger who found the body in the park the other day."

She pauses for a moment. "Oh...kay..," papers rustle in the background. "It was a ranger named Peter Boulay. I'll patch you through to his radio." She pauses for a moment. "Good luck."

Great. I finally get someone marginally on my side and it's a glorified Park Ranger secretary. Maybe if I need a good map of the park she can help me.

Drat.

"Thanks, Rosette."

There is a click and a hum, and then, "Peter Boulay speaking."

At least I reached him. "Mr. Boulay, this is Agent Mulder with the FBI. I wonder if you'd be willing to show me where it was you found that body the other day."

There's a pause.

"Sure, I guess. Where are you now?"

"Atlantic City. A casino called-" I glance at the sign- "The Galaxy Gateway."

"Okay, I'll meet you at the main gate in, say, an hour?"

Sounds good. "Thanks, Mr. Boulay. See you then." I hang up the phone.

Park rangers. Now it's park rangers.

I pull into the free parking and Boulay drives me out to the spot where he found the body. He doesn't talk on the drive and I don't try to initiate conversation.

Park rangers, by the nature of their jobs, are more security officers and nature conservators than police. While they may deal with camper-related crimes, they don't get the usual assault and murder stuff we get out in the real world. Finding a body in a state park is the kind of thing that happens so rarely that there's no training for what to do if it happens – they have to rely on what they learned watching _Quincy._

He stops by a creek and we get out of the truck. He points toward the water. "Found the body just over there, lying face down in the rocks. Thirty-two years with the park service, I've come across some weird stuff but I tell ye, never anything like this."

I wonder where he was killed. "Victim was a homeless man, you get many of them wandering around out here?"

"Well, occasionally, see some but, most are scared of the woods."

What a shock. "Scared? Of what?" The Jersey Devil.

"I don't know, the devil."

I love being right. "People say that's just a myth."

He shrugs. "Depends on who you talk to."

"What do you think?"

"Well like I said, now thirty-two years, I see alot of weird stuff. Like one time, a little over four years ago, I saw what I thought was a, large man come out of a, copse of birch trees, not, not a stitch of clothing. And he was about, sixty yards away, and he starts, sniffing the air, you know like a dog. And then he looks straight at me, and I swear he smelled me because he took off into the woods so fast, you'd swear it wasn't human."

The Jersey Devil. "Really. You never saw him again?"

"No, but I feel him. And, I found things, some scat, half buried like a cat's only more human. Found a half eaten rabbit with what looked like a human cuspid tooth in it. And some beer bottles, looked like they'd been sharpened into tools."

Well how about that. _The Gods Must Be Crazy._ "You think it might be what's responsible for the body you found?"

He chuckles. "I got a pension coming up in a few years, you know, you say the wrong thing."

So he does think so, but I'll never hear it. "Yeah."

"I'll tell you one thing, I don't ever come out here without my weapon anymore."

So the killer had to get the body to the park. "How far is it into town from here?"

"Bout a mile, mile and a half."

Well, I think I can find my way back, and he should get back to work. "I'm staying at the Galaxy Gateway for the next couple of days, if you think of anything, will you call me?"

"Sure."

I follow the path next to the creek, deeper into the woods. It's kinda pretty out here, in a woodsy sort of way, but it's creepy too, probably because of what Boulay told me. It's a good fifteen minute walk, which gets my thoughts in order. The killer must have got the victim from the city. He walked down this path, found a Roger Crockett, and brought him into the woods. At some point, he killed Crockett and left the body by the creek.

The path comes out in an alley filled with homeless people and their boxes. I wander through them, asking if anyone knew Roger Crockett. If this is where the killer got his victim, someone may have seen it happen.

However, no one wants to talk. They just want my change. And then

"What d'you wanna know?"

Bingo. "Did you know Roger Crockett?" He nods. "Did you hear how he died?"

"Yeah."

"Any ideas who might've done it?"

"You a cop?"

"No, I'm FBI."

To the homeless, that's better. "I'll show you something."

"Okay."

He takes me into another alley. "I need some money."

The man rummages through his bag and pulls out a piece of paper. He opens it, revealing a drawing of a really shaggy-looking man.

The Jersey Devil? "What is this?"

"Stuck in the pocket of a jacket I found."

That doesn't give me much. "Does it mean anything to you?"

"I've seen it."

Now we're talking. "Where?"

"Right here, digging in the trash."

You're kidding. "Here? Are you hustling me?"

"Swear to God."

Why would it dig through the trash? "Who do you think it is?"

"I don't know, scared the hell out of me."

The path _does _come out right here. "Has anybody else seen it?"

"Oh yeah, everybody's pretty freaked."

Freaked? That means publicity, of some kind or other. "Anybody told the cops?"

"You think they don't know."

I should stay here tonight. "Where're you sleeping tonight?"

"You're standing in my bedroom."

Well, since I'm not gonna be using my room, someone should. "You know The Galaxy Gateway?" I hand over my key. "Room 756. Go ahead."

"Hey, they got HBO?"

Good thing I checked the TV program. "Yeah, they do."

I've never slept in an alley before. It's not very cold, but the ground is unyielding and it sure feels like it should be freezing. I don't know how people do it.

I can't believe Scully left me here alone.

She's probably within her rights. It's not like she doesn't have a life, or plans. It's not like I don't have a life, at least in theory, that would be better served by being at home than being in Atlantic City sleeping in an alley. Who's gonna feed my fish if I don't go home?

At least I remembered to cancel my standing order from the Chinese place for tonight.

It's something that hasn't occurred to me. My work tends to run in streaks – and Scully may not know that. She might not be at her godson's next birthday party. Or her parents' anniversary, or her siblings' weddings. We won't always be in Atlantic City. She won't be able to catch a train back from New Mexico, or rural Idaho at a moment's notice.

These are things we need to keep in mind. Or, rather, I need to keep in mind, since it's really because of me that she's in this stupid quest to begin with. I mean, I guess it's actually Blevins' fault that I "need" a partner, but Scully is my responsibility and if I'm going to ruin her friendships and her relationship with her family it'd better be worth it. The problem is, not having any friends other than the Gunmen and not having a relationship with either of my parents kind of makes me not know what I'm missing. I guess we'll just have to handle long-distance plans when we come to them.

A can rattles. I take a good look around.

There's a shadowy figure at the end of the alley, digging in the trash. Isn't that more of a daytime activity? The man/woman/thing sniffs the air as I approach, but doesn't run off. Once I'm about ten feet away, it climbs the fence at the end of the alley.

It's gone.

Not for long though. I climb up the fence and see it moving down a catwalk toward the street. It would be quicker to climb over the fence, but I don't want to startle it, so I just follow along the side of the fence until I hit the street. I can see something moving on the roof of a nearby building. So I do the manly thing. I whistle. It stops, turns to look at me, and maybe I have a chance, but-

Cops. A car and a van. They have their brights on, and they pull up to the curb in front of me. An officer gets out. "Sir."

I point upwards. "You got a man up on that roof."

"Nothing to be afraid of, we're gonna give ye a warm place to sleep it off." He tries to grab my arm.

Oh, come on. Just 'cause I slept in an alley - "Hey back off."

"Alright, calm down."

Shouldn't they be investigating? "I'm telling you, there's a man up on that roof."

"Get in the car, now."

They're not gonna investigate. I let him cuff me and put me in the back of his car.

Dammit.

I'm taken straight to interrogation. This sucks. I'm usually on the other side of the two-way mirror.

Detective Thompson joins me. Just when my night couldn't suck more.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

I think I was hunting for a killer. "Enjoying the night life here in beautiful Atlantic City."

"I'll go right to the D.A.'s office if I have to, obstructing an investigation, misconduct."

You're kidding. I wasn't obstructing anything. And, yeah, I guess sleeping in an alley would be misconduct, but I was awake, thank you. "That's good, let's go see her together, and while we're at it, why don't we add withholding evidence to the list."

"Wadda you talking about?"

Didn't he interview the witnesses? "Statements given to you describing something stalking the back streets of Atlantic City."

"This is the fishing trip they get me up at three-o-clock in the morning for. Unbelievable"

I know he must have interviewed the witnesses. "Why else would you be sweeping the streets tonight? You know it's out there."

"I got a perpetrator out there. Whether it's Hannibal the Cannibal or Elmer Fudd, I've got a job to protect people."

Maybe a little gangster talk? "Oh is that your job, or is it to keep the dice rolling, keep the tour buses rolling in. You can't fill those casinos, this town disappears like a quarter down the slot." Or not. I decide to put my cards on the table. "I've seen it."

"Seen what?"

I pull out the picture the guy in the alley gave me. and wave it in his face. Thompson chuckles. "You've been spending too much time in supermarket check-out lines." Moron. "This story's as old as the hills."

Groan. Scully in a tie. "Who's going to be responsible when you lose your first tourist, Detective? You are."

"No, you are sir, because you're wasting my time, and impeding the solution of this case. He opens the door and then turns back to glare at me. "You wanna go on a safari, go to Africa. In the meantime, enjoy the rest of your weekend."

I have a feeling that Africa is not a place I would enjoy, and I'm not entirely sure why that is. Anyway, Thompson leaves me sitting there alone, wondering how it is I'm supposed to call Scully and tell her to pick me up from jail.

My turn for my one phone call comes about ten minutes later. Still no idea what I'm gonna say. I call the office, but there's no answer, so I call out to the bullpen, where she probably is anyway. Someone named Alice Hoffman answers the phone and hands it over to Scully.

Thank God Alice didn't ask where I was calling from. I think she might have gone into cardiac arrest from the sheer gossippy joy of it.

"Where are you?"

I wish Alice had asked me. Then I wouldn't be getting interrogated right now. "I'm not far from where you left me."

"You're still in Atlantic City?"

Yeah... "Scully, you got anything happening this morning?"

"What's that noise in the background?"

Indeed, there is someone vomiting in my immediate vicinity. Three guesses what he got arrested for.

"That's a guy getting sick."

"Mulder where are you?"

This should be fun. "Scully, I've been locked in a room with people getting sick all night. Where do you think I am?"

"The drunk tank." She sounds resigned.

"Yeah, and I was wondering if you could drive up here and get me."

"From the drunk tank."

"I wasn't drunk," I point out.

She sighs. "I'll be there." She sounds resigned again.

"At least I'm not hung over," I tell her.

Silence.

"I'm at Central Booking."

"I'll be there," she tells me, and I wish, just a little, that I could melt through the floor.

She gets there in three hours and she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Really. And that's when I realize her hair is red.

It's a funny thing – to me, it seems blond, but just for a second I realize that what I've seen as kind of a flat, uninteresting color, is, in fact, reddish. Just because I can't see the color doesn't mean it's there. It's something to remember about her. There's more to her than what I can see. Like loyalty.

The woman just drove three hours to fish me out of the drunk tank when she should have let me rot. She bailed me out. For whatever reason, she's not leaving me here to make my own way home. That's loyalty.

"What did you get arrested for, anyway?" she asks as we wander out the door and into the sunlight.

Ah.

"Vagrancy." I mutter.

"Well, it's not hard to see why they mistook you for a vagrant," she says, nodding at my clothes.

"You gonna rag on me or you gonna take me to get something to eat?" I ask her. God, I could eat a horse.

"Am I buying or did you manage to panhandle some spare change while you were at it?"

Hardy har har. "Let me check out of my hotel room, and then I'll buy you breakfast."

I'm starving, but Scully sticks to coffee and a muffin. I don't know why – it's one of the better restaurants I've been in since I started traveling all over looking for aliens. As soon as our food arrives, Scully begins the interrogation. "Mulder, what on Earth possessed you to spend the night in an alley in Atlantic City?"

I decide that cryptic answers probably won't help the situation. "I went out to see where they found the body, followed a path back to an alley full of people who said that someone's been hanging around rummaging through the trash at night, so I decided to take a chance." She polishes off her muffin in silence after that.

"I saw it around three in the morning, digging through a dumpster," I tell her and get no reaction except to watch her drink her coffee.

"It moved like a cat, quick and graceful. There's no way a human could've got up on the roof that fast," I add, knowing she'll just ignore the fact that suddenly there's a roof in this story.

"Mulder..."

"What?"

"What's gonna happen when word of this gets back to the bureau?"

That's what she's worried about? "They dropped the charges, that guy Thompson, he ran me through the system just to spite me."

"I'm talking about this Jersey Devil thing."

Who cares? They probably won't pay any attention, just like always. Or I'll get fired for doing my freaking job. "I saw it, it's exactly the way the ranger described it, the way it moved, the way it sniffed the air. It's come out of the woods, probably in search of food."

"Yeah, I'll say."

"It was peeking through the garbage Scully, if it was a man-eater, why didn't it come after me? Probably felt threatened in some way..." Animal behavior. Think primitive man...

"Mulder, listen to yourself. You're already ascribing it a motive and an alibi. This thing, chewing somebody's arm off is not exactly a defensive posture."

"But you do believe that I saw something, don't you?"

"You saw something, I'll give you that but I'm not about to go in and sell it. Not when it's nothing more than a sighting in a dark alley."

"I still got a hotel room I'm paying for," I tell her, which I meant to check out from before I ate, darn it.

"Yeah well, I have got to get back to Washington by 7:30, so er..."

"Another birthday party?" Does she never have a night off?

"No. I have a date."

A what now? I need her! "Can you cancel?"

"Unlike you Mulder, I would like to have a life."

That hurts. "I have a life!" Says the man who just got arrested after trying to spend the night in an alley. On purpose.

Scully chuckles. "C'mon, I have somebody I want you to meet, on the way home. C'mon."

I force another few swallows before she can drag me out the door.

* * *

"On the way."

I distinctly remember her saying "On the way."

So how come we're adding an hour to our drive time by going past both our place of work and our homes "on the way"?

There's only one explaination. Scully's snapped.

Of course, I don't want to say anything. Thou Shalt Not argue with the person who just drove to Atlantic City to bail you out of the drunk tank first thing in the morning on a Saturday after you made her drive home alone on a Friday night in traffic with a time crunch.

And what was she doing at the office on Saturday anyway?

And why is it that we're pulling into the University of Maryland on a Saturday? Is anyone likely to be here? At all?

We drive through campus while Scully mutters to herself under her breath (no doubt trying to find parking, which in Universities is practically impossible to find). We end up in someplace called Union Lane, which, judging by Scully's muttering is a good place to be, and wander through the endless walkways that are the staple of university life to Woods Hall, land of the anthropology department.

Lucky for me, the anthropology department has coffee, because I'm rapidly running out of steam. Scully takes a look at a floor directory, then pulls me into the office of a Doctor Louis Diamond. My head hurts. I'm so going to kill her for this.

Louis Diamond also has coffee, I notice in a kind of abstract way.

Scully greets him warmly, and he also has to remember her. "Dana! Wonderful to see you? Last I heard, you were in medical school. Are you practicing?"

Scully kind of winces. "Actually, I joined the FBI. I'm here on a case, we were hoping to get an opinion from the anthropological perspective."

Diamond frowns. "Dana, I'm not really someone who the FBI commonly-"

She cuts him off. "I just need some background. My partner here-" she gestures to me "-thinks we've found the Jersey Devil."

Doctor Diamond looks at me closely, with kind of a perturbed frown. I swoop in and shake his hand. "Hi. Fox Mulder."

"The Jersey Devil?" he asks.

I nod. "Yep."

He gestures to the chairs in front of his desk. "Have a seat."

I sit, but Scully remains standing. Doctor Diamond begins pacing around the room in that annoying way academics have. "The Jersey Devil is an archetype, Mr. Mulder. I don't think it's likely that it actually exists, although parts of the myth may be based on actual people or events."

So the Leeds family actually existed but never had a demon child? "Do you mind if I-" I gesture to the coffee maker. I'll need some fuel to stay awake through this.

He nods once and then resumes pacing. I jump at my chance for caffeine. "Just about every culture has one. Yetis, Sasquatch, Russian Almas, Dsonoqua."

I don't get it. "Why is that?"

"Oh, it's a kind of universal wild man myth. A symbolic fear of our dual natures as humans, as creators of life and destroyers of it."

There is a chart on the wall behind the coffee machine. It's a map of the world with a lot of x's on it. "What's this chart?"

"It shows the historic entry of man onto each continent and the effect it had on other animal species, which as you see has been disastrous."

I can't help myself. "Why?"

"Well, we humans have retained hereditary traits through evolution that have proven to be extremely destructive. We tend to be tribal and aggressively territorial, oriented by selfish sexual and reproductive drives that make, co-operation beyond the family-a-tribe, extremely hard for us."

He's walking right into my point, and Scully's gonna kill me. "So we kill other species in order to survive."

"Yeah, humans are top carnivores, we sit at the top of the food chain and we, reduce other species' chance of survival."

"Nice to know Dana left here with more than a degree," says Doctor Diamond.

"But what if something entered the food chain above us?" I ask.

The doc grabs himself a cup of coffee and Scully sits down. Yep. Got 'em now. "It won't happen, see our intelligence virtually insures us, barring the introduction of some alien life-form, we will live out our days as rulers of the world."

Barring aliens. Great. "But, but what if through some fluke of nature, a human was born, who reverted to it's most animal instincts, a kind of carnivorous neanderthal. Wouldn't he occupy a space above us on the food chain?"

The doc chuckles. "Oh sure, all he'd have to do is wait outside any fast-food restaurant and eat us on the way in."

"Right, yeah, an.and, and haven't there been cases were, men have been raised in the wilderness by animals who have no language and hunt like predators?"

"Oh yes several, but you see cannibalism is rare, even among the lower mammals."

Except we're not talking lower mammals. "But even when faced with extinction?"

"Well maybe in the jungles of New Gineau or, it's just, highly unlikely that what you're suggesting could've survived civilization, a revolution, out in the woods of New Jersey."

"Yea, highly unlikely, but not outside the realm of extreme possibility?"

"Well, it would be an amazing discovery."

I look over to Scully then, victorious, but she just turns away.

Anyway, she takes me home in silence after that and goes back to her life and her _date _and whatever else the normal do on a Saturday night and I shower and change and drive over to headquarters to have a peek at some of my Jersey Devil pictures and do some comparing and some contrasting and maybe some psychology/anthropology type stuff, and while I'm at it dig through my head and see if any relevant stray information pops out at me.

Three hours later...

Well, that's not precisely accurate. It's just that the psych isn't any use, _exactly_, because whatever this thing is it acts like an animal. And the anthro isn't really my specialty, so I have to do a lot of reading, which means anthropology books, which I sort of had to go out of my way to find any of those and then I had to read them. And it's kind of boring to do this kind of work alone and I wish Scully was here and I can't believe I just thought that.

Usually when we do any kind of research we don't even talk. She reads medical journals and I read _Weekly World News_ looking for crop circles. She raises an eyebrow when I rip out an article and I try to puzzle out the meanings of the medical terminology in the titles of her articles. It's a ritual, one I depend on, and without it I'm bored to tears.

At some point she became necessary to my work, like breathing or food or the ability to read. I could probably go back to how it was before, of course. And she really should ditch the basement as soon as she can. Best to get her gone before I get too attached.

Any day now.

It's 7:55. They're probably eating something wonderful in some nice restaurant instead of the leftover Chinese I picked at while I brushed my hair with the other hand.

The phone rings, startling me out of my daydream.

"Mulder."

"Agent Mulder, this is Peter Boulay of the Jersey Parks Department."

Oh boy. "Oh yeah, hi."

"Hi, I found a body out in the woods today, it looks like it's been dead about six to eight months. A long haired male, missing the same tooth I found in that rabbit a while back. It could be your devil."

I love it when things get easy. "Where's the body now?"

"I turned it over to the coroner's office."

Of course, they always get difficult again. But animal societies have carefully defined gender roles which explains the whole 'why would it suddenly turn to cannibalism' thing. "You're sure it was a male?"

"Well, it had all the plumbing."

Okay, so that's one problem solved. I'll have to get Scully to take a look at it in the morning.

Scratch that.

"Could you go down to the coroner's office in about three hours?" I ask him.

"Sure, I guess," he replies, "Why?"

Someone is going to have to help me convince her. "I need backup."

"Okay, Agent Mulder, I'll see you there." He hangs up.

I have to get Scully to take a look at all of this, tonight. Before someone else dies. She probably doesn't have her cellular phone with her now, but her pager should be in her purse.

Just in case.

I page her and then start gathering the evidence in neat piles so I can dazzle her with my brilliance. The phone rings about five minutes later. "Scully -" I begin, but she cuts me off.

"_Mulder."_

Cringe. "Sorry to interrupt your evening."

"That's okay, what's up?"

"I just had an amazing thought, maybe it isn't a beast-man we're looking for after all."

"What do you mean?"

"What if it's the beast-man's mate?"

There is a significant pause. "Mulder, I don't know if-"

"Scully, can you just come meet me? I've been doing research at headquarters and I have scientific evidence that validates my theory, and they just found the body of a naked man in the park in Jersey."

Dead silence.

And then... "Okay, Mulder. Give me half an hour?"

Half an hour? I can live with half an hour.

Half an hour later I am crawling the walls and I don't want to admit it. I just want to see the look on her face when the evidence is all laid out in front of her, and here we are with a three-hour drive ahead of us to get to Atlantic City, and then we'll have to deal with the cop – or rather, avoid dealing with the cop – and Scully'll have to autopsy the body and admit that I'm right and then we have to find the Jersey She-Devil, and then we have to lock her up or whatever it is you do with She-Devils, and then the Bureau will admit that I'm somewhat legit, and then-

"Mulder?"

And then.

"I'm here, Scully." She wanders into my office, where I have migrated to pack up my assorted evidence. "Come on. You can look over my evidence while I drive." I grab my briefcase and head for the car lot, and she remains silent. Deathly silent.

It occurs to me that this is not good, and that it doesn't bode well for me, and that I broke into her _date_ to drag her to Atlantic City, a place that she probably is not too fond of at this point, to go look at the body of something she doesn't believe exist.

I also call in Doctor Diamond and have him meet us too. When he objects to the late hour, I simply tell him we've got the Jersey Devil in the morgue.

Yeah, I better hope she's on my side, because if not I'm going down. She spends the trip in silence. I mean total silence. She doesn't make a peep when we stop for gas, or when I almost swerve off the road to avoid a possibly drunk driver. She grunts when we pass the Atlantic City limits, and every once in a while she turns a page in the stuff I've packed in the briefcase I packed her and she grunts at times – about when I would think she's hitting the more defining parts, or at least that's what I imagine. But she never demands that I let her out at a bus stop, and she never demands that I turn around.

I pull into the street in front of the coroner's office, and we go to find Glenna. I don't have to go far – she's in the lobby and yes, it is, in fact, after 11 at night. Some people have just as small a life as we do.

"Agents," she says, "let's step into my office."

We traverse the distance in silence, up an elevator and into the hallway full of autopsy bays, with me about to be bouncing off the walls if this drags on any more. She takes us into an office and there are Doctor Diamond and Peter Boulay. Thank God, a voice of sanity. We shake hands while Glenna digs into her filing cabinet and starts digging around. They both look extremely serious. Boulay looks at Scully. "The Body's gone."

Well, crap. Scully looks daggers at me.

Glenna returns with the file. "Well, if they picked it up, nobody logged the body on the chart. I sure haven't seen it."

Oh boy.

Boulay looks confused. "Well, I don't understand. What else would they have done with it?"

Scully winces. "I'm afraid we may have called you down here for nothing." She's moved over to exchange greetings with Doctor Diamond.

"They're going to try and sweep this whole thing under the carpet," I announce. As if they didn't know.

"Why?" Or maybe the academic-minded among us really don't know.

"Any publicity and you're got the streets crawling with the kind of people who aren't here to play the crap tables. Word gets out there's something still on the loose, forget it," I explain in a nutshell.

"You said it was a female," Diamond talks like he's continuing, but I think he skipped a few rails, and I think Scully fills people in faster than I ever thought possible. Without slide shows.

"The body they found was a male, there's a fifty-fifty chance there was a mate. We may never know unless we find out ourselves."

He frowns. "If it's true, what're the chances of catching it alive?"

Best idea I've heard all night. Scully, however, looks aghast. "Alive?"

I think my grin scares her. "Alive."

Peter Boulay has a tranq gun in his truck and Diamond has the expertise and Scully has the sarcasm. We set up in the alley where I got arrested for sleeping outside and wait for her to show up and have a snack. Diamond lectures the whole time about primates and their habits as we cut through the fence, finishing up with "If it is a primate, it would have a natural fear of heights. It would also want to stay close to it's food source."

We step into an abandoned building next to the alley and take a look around. Diamond is wrong. "This thing has no fear of heights. We'll stay together and start with the lower floors. How much time will that dart give us?"

"It'll put down a five hundred pound bear for an hour, if I hit it," Boulay tells me, which doesn't really give me any kind of answer. We go inside, content not to know, hiding in the shadows, listening to a faint sound of cars outside, waiting for something that may not come, might not even show up-

Or it might.

It will. It has to.

We search nooks and crannies and piles of rubbish, and then-

"Something here."

It's Diamond. We all convene around him and the scrap of cloth he's holding. "It's blood. She could be bringing her killing here. She could be injured."

It's plausible.

In the back of my mind for some reason I register a metallic sound outside. Sounds like it's a ways away. Scully and I climb the stairs to the next level, searching for something that does exist, has to exist, has to show up tonight because otherwise it's over. Scully will put up with a lot, but she has to know now what it means to be attached to me. Sure, it's worth it to me, but not to her.

Never to her. It can't be. I'm pretty sure she can spend more than two seconds with her family without someone saying something perfectly nasty to someone else. I don't want to ruin that for her.

Not unless it's worth it.

And it will never be worth it unless she's making Important Scientific Discoveries. Like the fact that the Jersey Devil is a real thing. I look out into the alley but I don't see anything. What if I'm wrong? Would I really care, if I got shut down. So long as Scully doesn't get dragged down with me.

Of course, if she's the one to shut me down I'll be royally pissed.

She's standing next to me, I realize, looking into the alley. "What if it is a female Scully? How close is she to you or me? Does she feel emotion? Or are her days just spent looking for food?"

"Maybe she spends her day shopping."

"Eight million years out of Africa, I don't think we're all that different," I tell her. Scully's a woman. Maybe they'll share a common bond.

"Mulder, we've put men into space, we've built computers that work faster than the human mind."

Yes. "While we over-populate the world and create new technologies to kill each other with. Maybe we're just beasts with big brains." She doesn't respond. "What?"

"No I was just, thinking about my godson's birthday party, eight little six year old boys running around, talk about primitive behaviour."

What kind of territorial agression would take a godmother away from her godson? What is it that could really be worth that?

There is a voice below me. I look down and see Thompson talking to Diamond.

Dammit. Time's up.

"Now look, his name is Mulder and he's a federal agent, you ever hear of him?"

"No."

Huh. "You know him?"

"No."

Scully opens her mouth and I put a finger to my lips. She peers over the railing.

"Well what are you doing here?"

"I'm a professor of Anthropology."

"Mulder, does that sound familar to you? Look, I know he's here somewhere. Would you check you upstairs Andrew, go check upstairs. I want this place searched..."

Some guy, Andrew I assume, moves off and we head upward.

There is a noise on the next floor, and when I turn my head someone runs by a busted out window. I chase her and hear Scully follow, and I slow and turn a corner in a rotting hallway and behind me -

"Mulder? Mulder where are you?"

Out the window is a woman, running over the next building. (Mulder looks out a window and sees the figure, the beast-woman, running across the top off an adjacent building. Next to the window is a hole in the wall, and I can jump onto that building and follow and Scully will find me later and be safer. Just later. I ignore the thump behind me. Across the roof a shadow moves and I duck so I won't be seen and then I crawl toward her and then suddenly she is there and boy does she smell. She walks by me and I tackle her to the ground, which is probably not my brightest move but I don't care because if I can prove the Jersey Devil is based on something then I win.

I win.

Me.

Only she's too fast for me and crosses a walkway to the next building and then I have to chase her of course and so I do that and I'm inside and down some stairs and it's dark but of course flashlights would not help right now and naturally the person who designed this saw a sci-fi movie and there's a spinning fan. Nice touch.

And there she is and she is _mad _and on top of me and not in the fun way. I land on my back and for a second I can't breathe and she's gone and then she's back and on my legs. Great.

A click.

I sit up but she smacks me down – hard. Now my head hurts too.

"Mulder?"

That gets her off my legs and the She-Devil is gone.

"Scully."

She's here. Why the hell did she follow me?

I try to sit up but she won't let me. "Lay back. Oh, Mulder you're hurt."

"You should've seen her, she was beautiful." Proof. Real proof.

"Yeah well, she just about ripped your lungs out."

Scully's hand comes away from my chest bloody and I decide shutting up would be good about now.

It's not as bad as she made it sound, and the paramedics are able to patch me up. Diamond keeps an eye on me while Scully deals with the inevitable bureaucracy but I'm too excited to wait for her to be done. "She could've torn my head off Scully but she didn't, she sensed that I wasn't a threat.."

"You've gotta hold still," says the paramedic.

Scully is on the phone. "Yeah I need to talk somebody who can get me federal jurisdiction on this case." She looks at me. "Mulder."

"What?"

"How old would you say she was?" asks Diamond.

I stay on Scully. "What?"

"The US assistant D.A.'s on the phone with the bureau right now, he wants to know what the hell is going on up here in Atlantic City."

Oh boy. "Well tell him he's got a real live neanderthal on the loose." I turn to Diamond. "She was young, I, I, I don't know...It's hard to say exactly what, what, what..."

"The Atlantic City major crime unit has filed a complaint that we're endangering a murder investigation."

There goes that. "That is such crap, you can..." how bad it is will be determined by how much of this sentence I get to finish.

"Agent Mulder, they got her cornered, in a building," says Boulay over the P.A.

Oh dear. "Let's go."

Thompson's got her cornered when I get there, and he's ready for the kill. I try to get to him, to stop him, to get in his face, but he has his goons.

"You could take her alive," I tell him, but he doesn't listen.

"What's going on in there?" he asks his radio.

"I got a man down, I got a naked woman just jumped from a second storey window." Oh no. "Suspect is headed south into the woods on foot."

"Call the dogs," Thompson tells the radio, and I know it's all lost.

Scully, oddly, is the one who wants to continue. "Come on, Mulder," she tells me as she pulls me toward the car. "I bet we can get Boulay to help us search a lot faster." She shoves me in the passenger side and then pulls out her phone and dials. "Mr. Boulay? This is Agent Scully. I need to meet you in the park – the cops are coming with dogs to find this woman-" There is a pause. "Right. South gate, keep away from the police. Okay, we'll see you in a few." She hangs up to notice I'm staring at her.

"Do you think it's the Jersey Devil?" I ask.

She doesn't answer me for several minutes, and then she tells me, "I don't know what I think. I don't know what that woman is doing out in the woods. But she's there, and it's possible that at some point she has been mistaken for the Jersey Devil, so yeah, I guess in a way I do."

She pulls into a side road and in the mirror I can see a line of police cars go past on the main road. "I just figured you didn't believe at all," I tell her.

Another pause of several minutes. "I do believe, Mulder, but not what you believe. I was raised to believe in what I can't see – I was raised Catholic, did you know that?" I kind of suspected. She wears a cross most of the time. "Mulder, the difference is that I like to have clear scientific evidence. Now if we find this woman, whatever she is, I'll have evidence of that. You're ready to make her and her ancestors the Jersey Devil people have been talking about all this time – I don't know about that. But right now? She might as well be."

There's a truck parked by the side of the road and we pull in behind it and get out. Scully leads me to the cab and climbs in, and I climb in afterward. Boulay is at the wheel and Diamond in the passenger seat, although I don't know how we managed to work that out.

"I think I have an idea of where she's headed," Boulay tells me, and pulls down a "road" to our right. It's little more than a gap between trees. "There's a spot where she could really easily be hiding out."

He stops at the bottom of the road. I can hear dogs in the distance, and I can see what he means. "I know these woods, if she's going for cover, she'll be down by the rocks," he adds.

We begin climbing down, looking around, when Boulay speaks. "Look." She is there, up above us, not where she could easily fall.

Now's as good a time as any. "Can you reach her from here?"

"I can try."

He fires, and the dart hits her, but she pulls it out before it can deliver it's full dose. She runs away, across a bridge over the river, and I follow. I can hear the others behind me. And then ahead of me I hear gunshots and it's all over. "I got it. Up ahead. I got it. She tried to take my arm off. Watch it right here." We run that way, but it's too late. All over now. My chest hurts and I don't care. "Right there. Looks like she was trying to bury herself." She is partially buried in leaves on the ground. I squat next to her. She would have been beautiful, I think, had she joined the rest of the human race. I close her eyes.

And then I turn to Thompson. "Why did you have to kill her?

"Same reason you kill a rabid animal."

I really want to hit him, but Scully takes my arm and somehow I know it's okay to just... not. We walk back to the car, even though it's a good mile and my side is killing me, leaving Peter Boulay and Doctor Diamond to chew Thompson out. From the sounds eminating from the scene of the shooting, it sounds like they're doing fine.

I took a few hours to get checked out at the hospital before Scully drove me home, and then we have to file a case report to Blevins. It's not really easy, because it takes a week to get the autopsy results, which Glenna finally has to Xerox and take to the post office herself.

It seems they keep getting "lost".

When they arrive, I carefully sort the photos and put them in my cabinet with the rest of the Jersey Devil file. I guess that's over and closed.

Scully comes in and sits across from me, and then passes me a file she's carrying. "Hi, this just came through, it's the posthumous medical exam on the woman's body. They found fragments of human bones still in her digestive tract, they estimated her age to be twenty-five to thirty years. Now they allowed Dr. Diamond to do a medical exam of the body but he found nothing that suggested prehistoric bone structure or physiology. Now the ACPD has her listed as a Jane Doe, and a search for her identity in state psychiatric records has begun, in earnest."

She won't be there. "Good luck."

"They have also released the medical exam from the male body that they found, his age is estimated to be about forty years."

I get it now. "There would have been offspring." Case not closed.

"The medical exam of the women's uterus does seem to indicate that she may have given birth."

"She was just protecting her children Scully, it all makes sense." The last piece has fallen into place. "The male dies and she comes out of the woods in search of food." I get up and get my coat, I need to go see that guy at the Smithsonian.

"Mulder will you do me a favour, will you just go out and have a beer, will you take the day off. I'll cover for you, will you just, take some time for yourself."

"Thanks for the offer but I've got an appointment at the Smithsonian with..." The phone rings and I head to pick it up "...an ethno-biologist, I can't wait to tell him about this." I finally get to the phone. "Mulder."

"Hello? Is Dana available?"

It's her _date_. "Just a second." Sigh. I turn to Scully. "It's for you." I leave her to reclaim her social life and head up to get the car. Maybe she doesn't have to go to all the stuff?

I make it as far as Fran's desk when Scully reaches me. "Who was that on the phone?" As if I don't know.

"A guy."

Huh. "A guy. Same guy as the guy you had dinner with the other night?"

"Same guy."

Do I have to get out the torture devices? "You gonna have dinner with him again?"

"I don't think so."

"No interest?" I hand Fran her form.

"Not at this time."

Fran hands me my keys. "Thanks Fran." Not at this time, huh? What does that mean? She follows me to the door. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going with you to the Smithsonian."

She should go have dinner and I know it. "Don't you have a life Scully?"

"Keep that up Mulder and I'll hurt you like that beast-woman."

She pauses with her hand on the door handle, and something inside me compels me to say, "Eight million years out of Africa-"

"Look who's holding the door," she finishes, and we leave for the Smithsonian.


	5. Conduit

never claimed to own this, so I don't know why you need the disclaimer. It's not like you're doing anything with these eps right now anyway, so please can't you share?

* * *

The next day, Luther Boggs gets a stay of execution because there is no justice in the universe and I spend an entire night in the office, which even I admit is a new low for me, but it has nothing to do with Boggs and I almost convince myself of that while I'm finishing up that article on the Gulf Breeze photos (Ed Walters was a big faker and the townspeople all jumped on the bandwagon). It comes out really well – so well I submit it to Omni under a psuedonym and hope for the best.

I am vaguely aware of a story of a teenager kidnapped in Iowa, but teenagers disappear all the time and I don't pay it much attention. Still, something about it pulls at me during the crash of the Mars Observer, and as I scan newspaper headlines in the convenience store where I buy my sunflower seeds the next morning I notice the headline on a newspaper - "Teen Taken from Tent by Aliens".

To be fair, 'newspaper' might be overstating the reputation of this particular publication. Still, something about it begs a closer look.

It's the girl in Iowa, and it's not much of an article.

"Sixteen-year-old Ruby Morris vanished

August 7 while camping with her mother

and younger brother by the shores of

Lake Okoboji in rural Iowa.

"Her mother, Darlene Morris, is

convinced that Ruby was abducted by

aliens. 'Ruby wouldn't just run off,' she

told a reporter. 'She loves me and her

brother very much.'

"A thorough police search has revealed

no clues. 'Ruby seems to have vanished,'

says a souce close to the police

department.

"Several 'bright lights' were seen in the

vicinity of Lake Okoboji the night

Ruby vanished from the campsite.

Not exactly Pulitzer material but I think I can do something with this. At the very least, the lake is a hotbed of UFO activity, and the least I should do is haul the paper down to work and see if there's anything I can work with here.

Scully doesn't care what I'm reading or if I even do anything at all, so I dig out my files and clip out the article on Ruby. At first it doesn't look like anything at all, but then I notice the mother. Darlene Morris.

The name is familiar. The girls in 1967 – what were their names? I pull out their file and sure enough, Darlene Morris.

Ruby's mother.

Now it holds water. Not a great amount and not without a precarious sense of balance, but it holds water.

Scully's at lunch when I fill out the 302 and submit it – better that way. She'll just want me to tell her what's up and where I got the article and somehow I don't think that will go over well. Instead I send it through channels and then I start going through the Bigfoot sightings and wait for my travel approval.

* * *

Scully is summoned to Blevins' office around two, which I didn't count on. Now I'm really in for it. She returns fifteen minutes later with my 302, wearing a scowl. "Mulder."

Dead meat.

"You just requested permission for us to go investigate a tabloid headline?"

"Scully," I ask her, "did you read the article?"

"_Yes._"

Too bad. She starts pacing, which is not a good sign.

"It just doesn't seem... substantial enough to warrant an investigation."

"Okay Scully, so we disagree, it's not the first time and it won't be the last."

"Well, at least if we had a legitimate source, we could..."

I'll legitimate her source! "This is the _essence_ of science, you ask an impertinent question and you're on your way to a pertinent answer."

"But what makes this case anymore credible, than..." she pulls the paper off my desk – dammit, she must have known it was there all day, I knew I should have recycled it – and reads from the front page. "...the hundred year old mother with the lizard baby?"

A fascinating piece of journalistic... something. "Because the lizard baby wasn't born anywhere near Lake Okoboji."

"Oko-what?"

Now I have her attention. "Boji." I get right in her face. "Okoboji."

Attention firmly grabbed. "Is that supposed to mean something to me?" This "man of mystery" thing is fun and I see why the men in black enjoy their jobs.

"If you know anything about trout fishing." I tell her as I turn off the lights. "Or UFO hotspots."

Which she doesn't. "Define hotspot."

I turn on my trusty slide projector and pop up the picture Darlene took as a little girl. "Four sightings in 1967, August, including one by a national weather service plane." Click, new picture. "This is a light blasted, digitally enhanced enlargement."

"The pilot took that photograph?"

Showtime. I try not to smirk. "Try a girl scout with an instamatic. Four of the nine girls in the troop claim to have seen something, _five_ if you include the den mother." Or whatever you call the leader of a girl scout troop. Don't ask me, I was an Indian Guide. "The Air Force said it was a weather balloon caught in a wind sheer. But there wasn't a weather balloon launched that day within seven hundred miles." So obviously not a weather balloon. Plus, there weren't any air force installations nearby, so we're not talking another version of Ellens. "Now read me the names of those girl scouts from 1967." Now I turn on my overhead projector and get out the transparency I made of the article.

She sighs. "Lisa Tyrell, Bonnie Winston, Dorreen McAllister, Darlene Mor..."

And I'm over by the screen, pointing to Darlene's name in the article.

I win.

She opens her mouth to say something but I beat her to it. While she was upstairs I put in a call to the cops, pretending to be a reporter. The last piece is in place. "It's the same Darlene Morris."

Scully's voice is resigned. "I guess we'd better get some seats on the next plane to Iowa."

"It leaves at 7:30 tomorrow morning," I tell her. "Our seats are reserved, just not paid."

She scowls. "I have to go figure out how to break this to Blevins. I'll meet you at the airport." She gathers her stuff and walks out the door.

* * *

She comes back just when I'm about to phone Ruby's mother. I put it on speaker and whisper, "Darlene Morris," as the phone rings. On the second ring, she picks up.

"Hello?"

"Mrs. Morris?" I ask, "This is Agent Fox Mulder from the FBI. I was hoping to talk to you about your daughter's disappearance."

"Do you know where she is?" she sounds desperate.

Scully winces. "No," I tell her, "but I'd like to come out and interview you in person, see if I can help. We haven't been asked in by law enforcement and there's no evidence Ruby's left the state, but the case falls in my division's jurisdiction."

"Yes," she says, "of course. Did you want to interview Kevin as well?"

Kevin? "Ruby's brother?"

"Yes, he's eight. He's been having nightmares, I don't know if it would be good for him to talk to you or not. He hasn't really told the police anything but I think he's holding back. He and Ruby were both outside when she vanished."

Huh. "I suppose I'd better try talking to him if he's up for it," I tell her, even though he'll probably just see me as another cop. My partner and I will be in Sioux City tomorrow afternoon. Will you be available?"

"Yes," she says, "of course. Thank you." The line goes dead.

"That was interesting," says Scully.

"How so?" I ask.

"I would have thought she would want her son to talk to us no matter what."

She doesn't get it and I don't know if I can explain it. "She doesn't want to have both her children in pain," I tell Scully. "She wants him to be as normal as he can."

She frowns. "Nothing will be normal after this."

Don't I know it. "Well, Kevin wasn't going to have a normal life as it is, Scully. His mother's name is on file with the Center for UFO Research because of all the fuss she's tried to stir up about the UFO she saw as a girl. I'm sure both Kevin and Ruby have felt the effects of that."

* * *

We have to rent a car and drive to Darlene Morris's home outside Sioux City. I drive, Scully bats around all the reasons teenage girls might legitimately run away from home without alien involvement, including but not limited to drugs, boyfriends (and pregnancy), trouble with siblings (especially with the age difference between Ruby and her little brother, Kevin), her father kidnapping her (parents are divorced, dad is AWOL), and my personal favorite (although I don't tell Scully this), having a mother who is obsessed with UFOs making it impossible for a teenage girl to integrate into teenage girl society. Although Scully doesn't put it quite like that.

"Mulder, have you considered that the reason Ruby might have run away might be that she's having trouble with her peers due to her mother's belief in UFOs?"

Ouch.

"There's no evidence she ran away," I point out lamely.

"Occam's Razor, Mulder."

The simplest explanation is most likely to be true.

"Explain where she went. They were in the woods, where could she have gone?"

"Someone picked her up."

"Who? You just said she didn't have any friends."

Scully sighs and mutters under her breath.

I check the address and pull in in front of a mildly dilapidated house in the middle of a fairly nice block. We walk up to the door and knock. A woman answers, and Scully steps up to her. "Miss Darlene Morris?" The woman nods and Scully flashes her ID. "I'm Agent Scully and this is Agent Fox Mulder, we talked with you on the phone last night."

"Please come in." She stands aside to let us enter. It smells strongly of cigarettes, coffee, and desperation. I remember the smell from when I was a child, just after Sam vanished. Sadness, that's what I smell. Terrible sadness. "Well I, knew that if I screamed, loud and long enough that, someone would listen. But I never expected the FBI." We had the Treasury Department, the State Department, the FBI, the CIA (I think), the police, the state troopers, and I think for a time a couple of Texas Rangers just for kicks. Never helped. "Er, this is Kevin. Kevin, say "hi"." I can hear my father's voice. _"Tell them what happened, Fox."_ Like it did me any good.

"Would you like some coffee?" I remember waking in the night to the sound of voices in the living room, coffee percolating in the background. Really, I should have remembered. I hate dealing with the kidnappings of young girls.

"Mmm-hmm," Scully answers Darlene, who walks away toward the kitchen and Scully follows, then looks back at me, but my attention is drawn to the mantel, where there is a picture of a young Ruby on display. I can see so clearly my mother's mantel the last time I saw her. Samantha's last school picture is still displayed, neatly seated next to my high school graduation picture, which may be the most recent picture my mother has of me. It's like she pretends that I just graduated and Samantha – Samantha will be back any day.

What will happen to Darlene? Will she be in denial like my mom? Or will she accept that her baby may not come home? Or will Ruby just walk in the door one day? Why should Ruby get to come home and not Sam? She was just getting to be fun – just starting to get out of her 'annoying baby sister' phase. I miss Samantha.

One of Ruby's pictures is her in a swimsuit, so similar to the one Dad took of Samantha two days before she vanished, down at the pier. I remember she lost a tooth in those two days. What else changed? What has changed since? A person could go crazy thinking about this – but I can't help myself.

I join Scully and Darlene in the kitchen, where Scully is interviewing Darlene with her professional detachment fully in place. "Some days I can't even get myself up out of bed. And Kevin has been acting so strange, I don't know what to do anymore. I-I just, want her back again."

"Miss Morris, during the divorce, was there a custody battle?"

"Charles had nothing to do with this."

Well, denial is not just a river in Egypt, but she seems pretty sure. "How can you be so sure?" asks Scully.

"Because I know what happened. It's just like it was before."

Here we go. "Summer of 1967, the girl scout troop?" I ask her.

"How did you know about that?"

"Your name's on record at the center for UFO studies in Evanston, Illinois."

She perks up a bit. "Really?"

"Yea, pilot for the national weather service made a similar sighting over the same area on the same day," I tell her.

"They took her didn't they Mr. Mulder?"

How the hell should I know? Maybe. I should talk to Kevin. "You, you said that Kevin was there, the night it happened."

"He didn't see anything, he was asleep."

How am I supposed to look at him without seeing myself? "Do you think I might talk to him anyway?" She nods. "Thanks," I tell her, and head into the living room. I can hear Darlene continue to talk to Scully.

Kevin is watching static on the TV. I remember staring into space, and I remember, more than anything, eyes. People watching me, watching each other. Family members and friends. They would smoke and stare, or just sit and stare, or cook a meal but they would still be staring, shocked, unable to do anything but stare at the impossibility of it all – wondering how to live in a world so changed, if they had any right to live in a world so changed that a little girl could just vanish into thin air... oh, yes, I remember the staring.

"Hey buddy! Mind if I sit down?" Kevin just shrugs. "Thanks." He looks down at his coloring. "Your mom tells me you've been having nightmares."

"I guess so."

I remember the nightmares, when I was finally able to sleep at all from pure exhaustion at first – but mostly I remember when the nightmares stopped.

"Wanna tell me about em?"

"No."

I remember people asking me questions I did not want to answer. Questions about my dreams – about what I thought happened that night. Questions I couldn't answer.

"All right." I look down at Kevin's coloring – or writing. Definitely writing. "What're you doing?" He turns to look at me, then back to his writing he goes. "Are you making something?" I ask him, and he nods. "Can I take a look at it?" He passes me the pad of paper. "Thanks," I mutter, but I'm distracted by what's on the page – ones and zeros. Binary code.

Kevin points to the TV. "It's coming from there."

I don't believe it. "The TV?"

But he nods again.

"Can I keep this?" I ask him. He nods and starts another page.

I walk back into the kitchen and show the page to Darlene. "How long has Kevin been doing this?"

She blinks at the paper. "A week or so," she says, "but I figured as long as it kept him occupied during all this -

No need to explain. "I'd like to run the code, see if anything turns up. It's a long shot but from what I understand the police have looked at everything else."

She nods. "Sure."

Scully stands up. "Thanks for the coffee," she tells Darlene. "We'll be in touch if anything turns up."

* * *

We book it over to the police station, show our I.Ds and are given access to a fax machine. I write out a quick cover letter while I'm phoning Danny. "Danny speaking," he answers.

"Hey, it's me. I need a rush job on something."

"What is it?"

"I don't know what it is," I am forced to tell Danny, "maybe a binary sequence of some kind. Could be anything, could be nothing."

"Mulder," he whines, "I'm _busy._"

"I know you're busy, look erm, I know a friend who knows a friend who knows a friend who can get you tickets to a Redskins game." And it's a good thing the NFL finally uses computers to reserve things, because two of those "friends" are computers – the one at Langly's desk and the one in the Redskins' ticket office.

"They better be good tickets," he mutters.

"You got it."

"Okay, Mulder, I'll have a look at your code. You owe me."

"Alright, you know where to find me. Thanks Danny."

"Later," he replies, and I can hear the fax machine on his end whirring before he hangs up.

I duck back into the Sherrif's office and he glares at me. "You done chasing figments?"

It could be nothing. "Yeah."

He sits down heavily. "So, as I was telling your partner, we found no evidence of kidnap, no phone call, no ransom note, and since we didn't turn up a body..."

I know, I know. "You _assume_ she ran away."

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time Ruby Morris ran away from home." I saw that in her file. She ran away once before for two weeks when she was twelve.

"Well, how do you explain what her mother saw?"

"Well I think that Darlene has a very active imagination. I've been listening to those stories since the first grade."

Now I'm pissed. I remember this too – the police wouldn't talk to me after the first day, because anything I remembered – disjointed as it was then – was fairly paranormal in nature. "So basically you ignored her statement."

"I included it in my report."

"But you didn't bother to check it out." I don't know how he would have checked anything out, but that's not the issue here.

"We went out to the campsite, we didn't find anything. Let me tell you something, Darlene's little girl was no prom queen. I can't count the number of times I pulled her out of parked cars, or found her puking her guts out by the side of the road, it was just a matter of time before-"

"_Not my baby! Not Samantha!"_ My mother's voice fills my head for a minute, and I find myself asking, "Before what?"

"Before something bad happened to her and if Darlene needs to make up crazy stories to get past that, fine. But don't tell me to treat it as the truth, I not gonna waste my time."

"A lead," I reply, "no matter how small, is _never_ a waste of time." And then I walk out the door.

* * *

On the way out, Scully is in full lecture mode. "I just think it's a good idea not to antagonize local law enforcement."

Probably. "Who me? I'm Mr. Congeniality."

"You never know, we might need his help one of these days."

He'd probably just say it was just a matter of time. "I'll send him a bunt cake."

I'm headed to the car, but there's a note in the windshield wiper. At first I think we've got a ticket, but it's definitely a note, reading, "I'm across the street. Follow me." I hand it to Scully, who glances at it and then across the street. I follow her gaze to a young girl standing in the grass in front of a small squarish building. She walks away, into the building – the city library.

We follow her to a particular aisle and walk down it. She moves around the corner before we can get a clear look and talks to us from behind the boos. "You're looking for Ruby, right?"

"That's right," Scully says. "Who are you?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Are you a friend of Ruby's?"

"Ruby didn't have friends, she just had people she liked to hang with." Scully doesn't bother gloating.

"And she liked to hang out with you?"

"Guess we had some times."

Why be so secretive? "Like the night she disappeared?" I ask.

"It was Greg, she was supposed to see him that night."

"Who's Greg?" Greg – first I've heard of a Greg.

"Her boyfriend, Greg Randall. Supposed to meet up at the lake. Had stuff to talk about."

"What kind of stuff?" No friends, but a boyfriend? This doesn't add up.

"Greg got Ruby pregnant. I don't know, whatever, she got herself pregnant."

She was pregnant. Huh. "Do you know what they were planning to do about it?" Scully asks her.

"Gonna leave town, least that's what Ruby told me."

No friends, but she confided in this girl?

Scully continues her questioning. "You know Greg from school?"

"Greg, school, I don't think so. All he ever did since we met him was pour beer. The Pennyslvania Pub."

There's a clatter of falling books behind me, and we both turn away for a second. When we turn back, she's gone and we can hear running footsteps. We dash around the shelves, but there's no one there and no obvious exit.

She's gone.

Scully frowns. "Mulder, if Ruby didn't have any friends, why would she confide in this girl? It doesn't make any sense."

I know. "Yeah, but we should go check out the bar anyway.

We find the bar okay, and when we walk in we stand out – actually, FBI agents usually stand out in some bars. Bureau dress code does not include biker jackets. I try to pretend I'm not annoyed when someone mutters about Scully being a "real" girl. Like I even know what they mean by that.

I manage to get the bartender's attention. "scuse me. Do you know where we could find Greg Randall?"

"Who's asking?" he replies, so I show my ID. "What kind of trouble's he got himself into now?" Nice.

"Actually, we were hoping you could tell us."

"Greg called in sick about three weeks ago man, I haven't seen or heard from him since."

Three weeks. "Any ideas where he might have gone?"

"No, but if you find him, you tell him he's fired." Nice.

Scully pulls out a card where she's written the location of our motel. She wrote up about five of them in the car, to give out to people we talk to. I think it's crazy, but it kept her occupied. "This is the motel we'll be staying at if you hear of anything." He puts it in his pocket. Yeah, like that'll ever see the light of day.

But when he moves his arm, it catches my eye – specifically, the bicep. "Hey, that's a nice tattoo, what is that?"

It's a flying saucer, and I know that. "What's it look like?" he asks.

"Flying saucer. You don't really _believe _in that stuff do ya?" Be cool, Mulder.

"I take it you don't," he says, but he's interested. He's making a convert.

What would Scully say? "No, I think it's all just a bunch of crazy people howling at the moon."

"So er, you haven't been out to Lake Okoboji, have ya?" Not a question.

"No I haven't, why?"

"You should ride with us sometime, you might see somethings that'll change your mind." He pulls back his hair – his ear and the side of his head show horrible burn scars. "Get a killer sunburn in the middle of the night."

* * *

We go back to the motel so we can get some rest and regroup, because we have nothing except leads on a guy who's been missing for three weeks and could be anywhere using any name – or dead in a ditch on a deserted road where no one lives. Either way, it's looking sketchy.

I remember the day the police weren't in our home for the first time in six months. Not one cop. Samantha had had a birthday in January, four months after she vanished. She was nine, and we didn't even know where she was and the cops didn't show up all day. They didn't have a single thing to tell us.

We can't even get the cops into Darlene's house, and it bites.

* * *

I'm woken up somewhat earlier than I might like by someone pounding on the door. I get out of bed, throw on some clothes, and open it to find a man standing there. He pulls out his NSA ID – Michael Holtzman, field agent.

NSA. Wonderful. Without saying a single word, he pushes his way into my room followed by another guy in a bad suit.

"Come on in," I mutter, and neither of them even glances at me. I sink down onto my bed and wait for it. Sure enough -

"Where did you get the document?" People are still filing into my room, digging through my drawers.

Hello to you too.

"Well, if you explain to me what you're talking about, maybe I can help you out." He hands me a sheet of paper covered in ones and zeroes. Ah, the document. Kevin. "This is a _document_? Just looks like a bunch of ones and zeroes to me."

"Tell me where you got it."

God only knows what they'll do to the kid. "Tell me what it is."

"Keep playing games Mulder, I'll haul your ass up in front of the D6. You can explain to them, what you're doing obstructing justice."

Lovely. I hand the paper back to Holtzman. "It's your call Holtzman. So unless they tell me otherwise, I'm not accountable to anybody outside my sub-committee. I don't care if it's the NSA or the Vatican Police." Isn't it funny how dawn makes things colder? I throw on my shirt. I've never had trouble with the Vatican Police. Could be fun – more fun than this. I throw on a shirt over my undershirt.

"It's a defense satellite transmission."

Whoa. "You're kidding." What the _hell_ is Kevin picking up? And how?

"Just a fragment but highly classified, we need to know where it came from."

Not only am I not turning in an innocent kid, but how the hell is he supposed to pick anything up sitting in front of the TV? "Well sure, I'll let you know as soon as I find out."

Someone's phone rings in the background, but Holtzman and I are both seriously pissed now. "That's it Mulder, you just bought yourself a one way back to Washington."

Does that come out of my budget?

"We got it," says the man who just hung up his phone.

It takes me ten seconds to figure out what they are talking about. They got what they need, and there's only one person who could have given them that. The NSA walks out of my room, and Scully walks in. "Great," I mutter. Here we go.

"What?" She asks. Here we go.

"You shouldn't have told them. They have no jurisdiction." I'm mad and I'm not hiding it. I thought we were past this.

"Mulder, they're NSA." Who cares? I throw on my jacket. Tie. I need a tie. "They think the boy may be a threat to national security."

"C'mon, how could an eight year old boy, who can barely multiply, be a threat to national security? People call _me_ paranoid." He's eight! And he should be studied, not interrogated.

"Well how did Kevin obtain top secret information? And, where do you think he got it from?"

I walk past her onto the balcony, throwing on my tie while I run down the stairs.

"Mulder?"

I'm gonna kill Scully. "I think he saw it on TV."

She sighs. Mulder, let me get dressed and I'll meet you downstairs in three minutes.

* * *

She gets in the car with me and digs her case notes out of her briefcase. I think I'm still glaring, because... "Mulder, it was the NSA."

"Scully, he's eight! You shouldn't have told them." I think we've been down this road before.

"It's illegal not to tell them. We work for the law."

"Scully, if you don't know and I don't know, they'll never know and they'll never be able to charge us with anything. Victimless crime."

"Mulder, that's the same argument corrupt cops use when they're lying to Internal Affairs!"

I pull down the street where the Morris family lives. "We're not corrupt, they're unbending."

"It's their job to be unbending."

It's their job to be unbending? Please. "It's their job to protect national security. Kevin saw this on the static on the TV, Scully! He's no danger."

"Then they'll figure that out."

The NSA beat us there of course and is already hauling out boxes of stuff. At one point the FBI decided I may have killed Sam. I think it was three weeks or so after, and they started getting desperate. Two agents dragged me into the police station and told me they knew what I'd done. It went on for two hours, with my dad sitting in the corner, until I told them it was my fault because I should have let her watch her stupid movie anyway. I guess after that I wasn't a suspect anymore.

Holtzman has the Morrises dragged down to the local FBI headquarters. I have to watch Darlene trying to reassure Kevin as they're dragged away in separate cars to the same destination.

Kevin is not reassured. "MOOOMMMM!"

They shush him and put them in their respective cars and drive off. The whole thing is hard to watch and yet I have to and it sucks and it's all Scully's fault, but women go insane because of these things so I'm pretty sure it's harder for her to watch than it is for me.

Especially since it's all her fault.

In Kevin's room, Holtzman boxes a bunch of sheets of 1's and 0's. I pick up Kevin's busted piggy bank off the floor and send Holtzman what my mom used to call my Patented Mulder Glare. He ignores me. "You guys do really delicate work," I tell him, deadpan.

"Let's get this to cryptography," he tells his little buddy, ignoring me. "I think we got what we needed, thank you," he adds pointedly to Scully as he walks out.

I go to the window and watch him drive away. And then I see that the trailer parked in the side yard. The top is all burned. Or looks burned.

So how would just the _top_ of a trailer get burned?

Scully moves in next to me. "What is it?"

"I'm not sure," I tell her. Probably nothing.

I walk down the stairs, trying to think of what, other than maybe lightning, and even that I doubt, could possibly do that. Or maybe a flying saucer hovering above with the brights on. I get outside and climb the ladder onto the top of the camper. The top isn't just burned, it's ash. I drag my fingers through it and take a whiff. It smells... burned. And it's clinging to my hand.

We get back in the car and head for the local FBI headquarters. Scully is in a furious silence, but my mind is churning. "Scully," I finally ask when I can't take it anymore, "let's say for a moment that Kevin can pick up satellite transmissions from a TV. How would that happen?"

"Well, he would have to be able to receive radio waves."

The human brain picks up all kinds of stuff. And plenty of information heads our way if we knew how to access it. Plus, there are reliable scientific instances where people have been able to pick up things that most people cannot pick up. Like radio waves, or ULF waves, or other things of that nature. Our eyes pick up all kinds of things our brains don't know how to process. "And how would he get that?"

"I have no idea."

"It could be done to him."

She is silent for a moment, probably trying to figure out where I'm going with this, how much to admit to. "Well... I guess. I mean, we don't know how, but if someone did know how to make that kind of neurological modification, then, yes, I suppose it's plausible."

Plausible. "The top of the trailer is burned."

"What?"

"Whatever was done to Kevin would take a lot of energy. The top of the trailer isn't just charred, it's ash. Something out there was expending a lot of energy – and way more than a lightning storm."

"Mulder-"

"From above," I add before she can say it wasn't aliens.

When we get to the FBI, Darlene and Kevin are still being interrogated, so we manage to get a few words with the agent who is decoding Kevin's work over in cryptography. She's a short hispanic woman who, when Scully figures out what she's doing, tells us, "Oh, you're the ones who found it. Well, you really should send this over to those guys who investigate the weird ones, because this...is weird. They'll be letting the boy go soon."

"How so?" Scully asks, probably about the weird, not about letting Kevin go.

"We scanned all seventy-seven pages through the mainframe in Washington," she tells us.

"And none of the information is actionable?" Scully presses her.

"Other than the satellite transmission, nothing can be construed, in anyway, as a national security risk. As far as I know, the boy's being released this afternoon."

"So it's just a random set of ones and zeros?" Scully concludes.

"On the contrary, there was nothing random about it."

Suddenly, Scully is very confused. "I don't understand," she replies.

"All information can be rendered digitally-" She takes us to her workstation and sits down - "in a series of ones and zeros. When we downloaded the data, we found an amazing range of – well, see for yourself." Part of a picture I have on my mousepad comes up. "Da Vinci's universal man." It changes again to something I've seen in magazines. "A DNA double helix. Oh, there's lots more. It changes again, and the computer plays music.

"That's from the Brandenburg concertos," Scully realizes.

"But they're just fragments, a few notes here, a few not there. Some lines from the Karanish Experience Sonnet."

It was just a fragment of a DOD transmission. Changing channels on the TV. "Almost like someone's switching channels, huh."

We all stare at each other and I know what Scully's thinking. Or, well, I don't, but I'm thinking the whole "saw it on TV" thing is starting to make a lot more sense. Well, a lot less sense, but more sense if you accept that nothing makes sense anyway. Darlene and Kevin are brought out then, and they walk right by us. I try to stop her, to apologize, but she just says "I have nothing to say to you," and keeps walking. I should let it go there, really, but have you met me? I don't do that.

So instead I reach for her, try to grab her arm and stop her. "Mrs. Morris, _please_ give me a minute to explain."

She stops and turns to her son, and says "Would you please just wait right over there for Momma, I'll be right there." Kevin walks over to the stairs, but he glances up at me before he does it. "I thought you were both supposed to be here to help us."

Scully jumps in. "This has been a terrible mistake. And I assure you that the government will pay for all repairs and damages."

"I don't want your money, I want my daughter back. And I want you to leave us _alone_."

"But your son has seen something," I point out, because that's obvious to anyone with a brain.

Full Mother Protective Mode kicks in. "You stay away from me, and you stay away from my child." She walks away to collect Kevin from the spot where he's staring at the TV monitors in the security area. "Come on, honey, it's okay, let's go now."

* * *

We have no choice but to check out the scene of the crime.

Scully notices this.

"I thought we were headed back into town," she says as I pull onto Route 68, which takes us to the lake. Maybe to Ruby, maybe to evidence that Greg took her away on his motorcycle, maybe to her decomposing body in the woods. "Where are we going?"

Maybe to whatever changed Kevin into whatever he is now. "The boy's the key Scully, I know it." It's not an answer to the question she asked. It's the answer to the question I want her to ask.

"The key to what?

Better. "Finding Ruby. Just think about it for a minute, this is a boy who is receiving all kinds of digitized data from a television screen." Or so I think. If I'm wrong I'm wrong.

"Agent Atsumi said it was a statistical aberration."

Agent Atsumi was grasping at straws. "No."

"Okay, I admit it, it's not much of an explanation but it..."

Yeah, I don't care. "I think that Kevin is a conduit, of some kind." Conduit: a line of transmission from a source (aliens) to a recevier (at the moment, me).

"A conduit."

"A link, or a connection, to whoever, or whatever, took Ruby that night." To whatever took Samantha? Maybe. How many alien forces go around abducting girls? I'm guessing not many.

"But how?"

"If there was an abduction, it's likely that Kevin was touched in some way." I am an abnormality – as far as I know I was untouched by the abduction. I have no implants, no new abilities.

No proof.

"Mulder I know what you're thinking. I know why this is so important to you." I have to look at her then, and see the sympathy, the _pity_ in her eyes. I don't want her sympathy. I want to find Ruby. And I want her to bring Samantha home with her, but of course that won't happen. It never happens. "I know," she continues, and I know she's right. "But there is _no evidence indicating an abduction_."

"That's why we're going to Lake Okoboji," I reply, and I know that she understands.

* * *

It's a nice place to go camping. Before, when Samantha was still around to be jealous that she didn't get to go too, Dad and I were Indian Guides. I liked the outdoors. I still do, in an abstract sort of way. There are seagulls, woods, and a nice spot for a campfire. I can figure out pretty easily where they all were that night. "According to the police photos, Ruby and Kevin were sleeping right here," I point to the spot next to the campfire.

Scully says what I'm not saying. "Just a stones throw from the forest wall."

But it came from above. "Meaning what?" The trailer was burned above. I look up. The trees are burned too.

"Meaning anybody could've come out of the forest to grab her."

"Have you noticed the tree line?" She looks up and scowls. "Evidence of extreme heat." With no time context.

"Or an electrical storm." Samantha and I used to go to the beach and collect shells. There's some good ones here. I wonder if Ruby feels about Kevin the way I felt about Sam. God she was annoying. "Besides which, there's nothing to connect it to the night of Ruby's disappearance."

One of the shells isn't a shell. It's a piece of glass.

Glass forms when sand melts. Scully's the one with the physics degree – how's she gonna explain this? "That's true." I rub the sand off the front of the glass and hold it up to show her. "Do you think a lightning strike could've caused this?" I walk it over to her frowning self. "Do you have any idea at what temperature sand solidifies into glass?" I hand it over and watch her rub at the sand embedded into what was the bottom side. "Twenty-five hundred degrees fahrenheit. Something was out here Scully, something hot enough to turn sand into glass, that, singed those trees and to blister the roof of that camper." Really must tell the aliens to stop careening through the atmosphere when we finally meet. I walk back to the waterfront to look for more glass, but Scully calls to me. "Mulder, look."

It is a wolf, a white one. Weird. It turns and runs into the forest and I follow.

Wolves don't hang around people like that, as a rule. Especially not in daytime. Unless they smell something really good. I stop when I see a pack of them, huddled around a bunch of stones on the forest floor. A person-sized bunch of stones. I pull out my gun and fire a shot into the air and they scatter. By the time I reach the stones, Scully is there. "What is it?"

When I take a breath to answer, I smell the decomposing body inside. Nothing quite like it. "It's a grave. Shallow, by the smell of it."

I pick up the stone on top. "Mulder what are you doing?" I know what I'm doing. What I would want someone to do for my sister, if her body is under a pile of rocks somewhere. I am bringing someone's child, someone's sibling, home to them. "Mulder, you are disturbing a crime scene." It's not just that it could be Ruby – I feel, have always felt, that what I do will find it's way to Samantha. An act of kindness, or of anger, will ricochet through the world until it finds her. Like the act of digging up a grave – like the one that for all I know she's in now. If I find Ruby – even her body – maybe then someone will find Samantha. Maybe then Mom would forgive me. Maybe then I would forgive myself. Or maybe I can bring Darlene that kind of peace. Maybe then I could forgive myself too. Scully grabs my arm. "Stop."

I turn to her, very slowly, and look right into her eyes. "What if it's her? I need to know."

She lets go of my arm. "I'll call the police. Just enough that we can tell if it's Ruby or not, okay?" That's all I need to know, so I nod. I move one more stone from the grave, set it aside, and look in. And then I have my answer.

* * *

When the police arrive, they bring a ton of pretty yellow tape to preserve what's left of the crime scene, but it's not gonna be any help. The man in the grave has been in there for three weeks. There's been rain, and wolves, and all the evidence is long gone. The coroner, the crime scene people, cops in uniforms, photographers, and more all descend on the scene to do their thing, and Scully and I are left a the side, which is fine. "You okay Mulder?"

"Fine," I tell her without malice.

The man in the grave is Greg. It has to be. "Looks like a male caucasian," the coroner says, and I have a sudden impulse to tell Greg he's fired.

"Victim's name was Greg Randall," the sheriff calls out, which is a conclusion I arrived at ten minutes ago.

Scully, however, did not. "Ruby's boyfriend."

"Ruby had a lot of boyfriends," the sheriff responds. He goes to bag Greg's wallet, but I reach out.

"Before you put that away, can I take a look at it?" I ask him.

"Go right ahead."

I grab some gloves out of the nearest case and open the wallet. Money, ID, slip of paper with the name, "Dr. Jack Fowler" and a date – August 7 – and a time – 2:30. Scully reads over my shoulder, and then we look at each other.

Maybe we can at least figure out if Ruby was pregnant or not.

* * *

When we get back to town, I take the note and blow it up on the copier. Scully gets out the note that girl left on the windshield without being asked, and when we compare the two, there it is. We'll need a handwriting expert to make it legit, but when we line up the FO for Follow and the FO for Fowler, only an idiot would miss the similarity.

"Look at that," Scully says, "it's her, the girl from the library."

"Who?" asks the sheriff.

"We didn't get her name but she claimed Greg and Ruby had run off together."

He sighs. "Well, Doc Fowler's a buddy of mine, delivered both my kids. I could find out who had that appointment."

I know what this could mean. If this girl was at the doctor, she was probably pregnant too. If Greg was going to run off with Ruby – well, men fear pregnant women for a reason.

The Sheriff picks up his phone and dials. "Jack? Hi, it's Marty. Listen, I need to know who had an appointment with you on August 7 at 2:30." He pauses. "No, it's a case. Homicide." Another pause. "Really. Thanks Jack. I owe you a beer."

He hangs up the phone, and turns to look at us. "There's this girl, Tessa Sears, who used to hang with Ruby. The appointment was a prenatal checkup – and it was for Tessa."

This could complicate matters.

* * *

When they bring her into the interrogation room, she isn't scared, or angry, or anything at all. She's been brought in for questioning, she's waived the right to an attorney, but she's not under arrest. She's eighteen years old and I think she just killed a man. "Have a seat Tessa," says Scully when they get her to interrogation. I watch from a spot by the wall and the sheriff leans against the wall, because this is Girl Talk. With a tape recorder and handcuffs. "We know that you lied to us the other day. We know that you had the appointment with Doctor Fowler on August 7th. We know that you're the one that's pregnant, not Ruby."

"Don't know nothing, do ya?"

"We can prove it Tessa, and we can prove that Greg was the father."

"So what if he was the father."

"This is very serious. Do you understand how serious this is?"

Samantha could have been returned without her memory. It happens. If she was returned in Texas or something, no memory, no family, what would happen to her? Who would she become? What if she's in prison? Tessa is proof that it doesn't take much desperation at all for a woman to go homicidal.

"Now you've waived the right to an attorney, so if you lie to us here today, you could be charged with perjury."

"Promised me we'd be in L.A. by Christmas," she says. "He had a friend there, I'd never seen the ocean."

Or if someone tried to stop her from finding us? What if she doesn't even know we exist?

"You said that he and Ruby were seeing each other. You said that they were planning to meet at the lake, is that true?"

What if she's decided she doesn't want to look?

"Lookit, I was nowhere near the lake that night, okay."

Yes she was. I stand up. "Sure you were Tessa." I walk toward her. "You knew they were meeting, so you sat there and you waited for them. You were angry and you were jealous." She knows where Ruby is buried. She has to.

"I wasn't."

"You sat there and you waited and when they showed, you killed him first, isn't that how it went?"

"No."

They just handed me the crime scene report and preliminary autopsy findings. "You snuck up from behind him and you shot him in the back-" I smack the desk - "BAAMMM." I walk around the desk and stand beside her. She doesn't even twitch. "And then you killed Ruby-" I hit the desk again - "BAAMMM." I walk over to the other side of the desk - "What was she doing right before she died Tessa? Was she pleading for her life? Was she running away?" Being Bad Cop is fun.

"I didn't kill her."

Her, not them. We're getting somewhere.

I walk back over to her side of the desk. "Where's she buried Tessa?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know where you buried her, Tessa?" I walk back to her other side.

"I didn't kill her."

Still? "You didn't?"

"SHE WASN'T EVEN THERE THAT NIGHT!"

This could cause problems. I crouch down beside her. "Well how would you know that Tessa, if you weren't there yourself." But I already know. Tessa killed Greg Randall, but she didn't touch a hair on Ruby's head. The Sheriff can take over from here.

* * *

Ten minutes later we're on our way out of the police station, and I think Scully wants to kill me, because I just said, "Scully, this puts us back at square one. Ruby could still be alive."

I have to believe that, because if there's no hope for Ruby then there's _really_ no hope for Samantha.

"Mulder you're not seeing the whole picture here."

I have to believe. Scully doesn't. I fight to remember that as I reply, "Which is?"

"Which is that all likelihood, Ruby is dead."

Likelihood. Plausibility. Odds. Logic. But those aren't the hard-and-fast rules of life. "Is that your conclusion or the conclusion of the Sioux City Sheriff's Department?"

"They're searching the national park and a rescue dive team is coming in from Des Moines to drag the lake."

I know what she means, but our whole murder case just got blown away. Tessa Sears killed a man – but she didn't kill Ruby. There would be no reason for her to say she was innocent of killing Ruby when she's sitting there admitting she killed Greg unless she didn't kill Ruby – which means Ruby, as far as I'm concerned, is alive. She's alive until I find her body. I look Scully straight in the eyes. "They're wasting their time."

"Do you really think Tessa Sears is telling the truth?"

About what? Probably. "Why not, what if Ruby never did show up that night?" It doesn't matter who was pregnant. Ruby's still gone, and Tessa didn't throw her in the lake.

"She lied to us in the library, she lied to us about her pregnancy, what makes you think she wouldn't lie to us about killing Ruby?"

Explain the burned trees. Explain Kevin. "Because something was out there in those woods."

"We have a suspect in custody, we have a confession to one murder, and we have a statement which speaks to the intent to commit another. It's _over,_ Mulder. It's time to go home and turn this over to local law enforcement."

She only says that because she knows that this is really about Samantha to me. She's trying to protect me – or herself. Someone's getting protected here and I don't appreciate it.

"I can't do that," I reply, and I just walk away and leave her there, and head into the sunlight because we still have one chance. Just one.

"Mulder where are you going?"

Like she can't figure that out. "To talk to the boy."

"Darlene won't even let you in the door."

Yeah. "Well, I've gotta see him."

"They don't wanna have anything to do with you...us." The footsteps behind me stop. "Mulder stop. Stop running after your sister."

The elephant in the room.

That's one thing that most people know without even asking – you don't bring up the elephant in the room. Because that takes me to places I can't afford to go on a case. It takes me to the damaged parts of myself – things I just barely keep under wraps. Maybe I should be better at it, but I'm not.

I'm just not.

"This won't bring her back." Scully sounds like she's going to cry. For me? Why would she want to cry for me? I've done all the crying I'm going to do, which is actually very little.

No. It won't. But it might bring someone's sister back. It might keep Kevin from spending his vacations tiptoeing around his mother when he's in his thirties. It might mean his father – if Charles Morris ever comes back at all – will someday be willing to be in the same room with him. It might mean all the things for the Morrises that I and my family will never have. In a way, I think, it will bring her back.

Just not to me.

I don't expect Scully to understand this.

"Come with me or don't come with me but until they find a body, I'm not giving up on that girl."

And then I walk to the car and get in, and pretend not to be surprised that Scully climbs in the passenger side without another word.

* * *

The ride is silent, but not uncomfortably so. It's like we've gotten all the things we are thinking out in the air. We haven't even agreed to disagree, we're just – cool with it. Relaxed, even. Scully's got whatever's going on in her head, and I have mine, and we've just arrived at a spot where that's okay. I know she won't let me cross any lines – but I won't let her back up so far we can't see them, either.

It works, I think, as we turn down Darlene's street, because we are so different. No matter how much we disagree, at the end of the day we're in the same car.

When I knock on the Morris's door, there's no answer.

A chill starts in my stomach.

"Hello?" I jiggle the knob and to my surprise it moves, so I walk right in. Scully is right behind me. "Mrs. Morris?"

The chill begins spreading up my spine.

"Kevin?" calls Scully, but she's met with silence.

The chill finds itself in the tips of my fingers and toes. I look down at the floor, and absentmindedly turn off the TV as I see that there is a neat square of 1s and 0s written in eight-year-old writing. And when I say square, I mean SQUARE. Thirty sheets or so of printer paper.

The kettle starts boiling in the kitchen, and the chill crawls into the inside of my skull.

I sit on the couch and stare at the papers. Why? And how? What is it? "Mulder," says Scully, "What does it mean?"

I don't know. "I don't know."

"I'm gonna check upstairs," she says, and her footsteps echo up the stairs for a moment, then - "Oh my god."

Huh? She's leaning over the rail, staring down. "What is it?"

"Just come up here." I climb up and she points down. "Look," she says, pointing at the face made by the 30 sheets of printer paper neatly arranged in a square to show a girl's face. "It's her, it's Ruby."

Which doesn't tell us where to go.

"Mulder, if you were Darlene, and you saw this, what would you do?"

_Do not be afraid. She will not be harmed. One day, she will return._

"I'd go back to where it all began," I tell her. And then I know. "We need to go back to the lake."

* * *

It is dark by the time we get there.

Not good for searching.

"This is a long shot Mulder, they could be _anywhere_."

I know. And for once, I speak the thoughts that run through my head when I'm working a case like this. Thoughts of Samantha, the ones I always keep to myself. Only this time, I don't. Maybe because I need to trust her, or maybe because I need to let go, just a little. Or maybe because I just want to see what will happen if I tell... someone. "You know when I was a kid, I had this ritual. I closed my eyes before I walked into my room, cause I thought that one day when I opened them my sister would be there. Just lying in bed, like nothing ever happened." She doesn't answer, so I keep talking. "You know I'm still walking into that room, every day of my life."

That's how I know where Darlene will be. She's been given a piece of hope, and she's walking into her own room. Also, I know because I can see her camper now. "Scully," I say, very clearly, and she looks and sees and all I can think is – if she gets her wish, why can't I have mine?

Sometimes I am not very nice.

I pull in behind the camper and we both get out of the car. "DARLENE!" I cry, but there's no answer. When I open it, they're not inside.

Which means they're in the woods.

The dark, scary woods where wolves live and someone was recently murdered. Brilliant parenting, Darlene.

"Look, there's a trail ahead," says Scully, gesturing with her flashlight.

We run into the woods, and I can hear someone crying – a woman. Darlene. She's on the ground, crawling down the path. We both kneel down next to her. "Are you okay?" I ask.

"It's here, I saw it."

Saw what? "Where's Kevin?"

"I couldn't keep up with him."

Scully and I look at each other and I know what she's thinking. Darlene needs a doctor. And I need to see – whatever there is to be seen. I need to do what I can to save Ruby. No more, no less. Scully nods, just once. "Go ahead."

And so I run down the path, and there, suddenly is Kevin. I can see him perfectly, outlined in the light from the other side of the hill he's standing on. It's very _Close Encounters_ and extremely unnerving. "KEVIN!"

Kevin walks away from me, toward the light. And I chase him into it, stupidly. Just for a second I think it's the light that took my sister – but it isn't. I know it. It's different somehow, but I want so much to believe that it's really here, and I've finally found _something..._

But I haven't. It's motorcycles. The biker in the bar, the one who got the killer sunburn in the middle of the night, I think, as I grab Kevin and pull him to the ground so we don't both get run over. Poor kid. When the bikers are gone, I stand Kevin up and ask, "You okay?"

"She's back."

Just for a second – half a second, even, I'm dumb enough to think he means Sam. But Samantha's not back, and I know it. Samantha's never back. And Ruby's not either. "Kevin I'm sorry but, I don't..."

"She's here. I know it."

Oh, kid. It's too late for me. It's not too late for you. Best to head off the obsession. "Kevin I don't think she is. I know how much you want it to be her, I did too."

"MULDER!"

It's Scully, screaming from down the path. Bikers? Or something else? "SCULLY!" I reply and I pick Kevin up and run back to where I left her. She and Darlene are still there – and so is someone... else. A girl. "RUBY!"

She's lying flat on her back and she doesn't move. "She's unconcious but she's still alive," says Scully.

"I'll get help," the Trained Emergency Management Person inside me says, and then I run back to the car for my phone.

* * *

I make the calls I need – 911, the sheriff, the FBI. And then I take a minute to sit in the car and wait and deal with the fact that my sister may not be back but someone's sister sure is. And while it gives me hope that _someday_ it will be our turn, I'm jealous. That's it. I'm jealous of an eight-year-old boy who just got back the sister he had no right to ever expect to see again.

I want Samantha back so bad I can taste it, and that's with me all the time. What scares me most is that someday, it might not be. I will have given up on her – she'll be gone. I don't want that. But I do want my freedom from this burden – and it is a burden. It's not just that I think aliens are cool, but that I have no choice but to believe in them, and believe they visit Earth and return the people they've taken. People like Samantha.

Or maybe I just want to know she forgives me for whatever it is I could have done to stop her abduction – which, for those of you keeping track, was nothing. I couldn't prevent it and I couldn't save her.

I miss her. That's the thing. I miss my sister, and I wish she was here so I could tell her that. I wish she was lying in the woods with Ruby clinging to life, so I could tell her that now, but no, not for Fox Mulder. I realized long ago, I don't get to have that.

There is a flash of red behind me as the ambulance pulls up, and I drag myself out of the car and escort the paramedics down the path to save Ruby.

* * *

Ruby is fine, they tell us at the hospital, and we can see her tomorrow.

So we go back to the motel and change and all those things a person should do after they've been running around the woods and nearly rolled over by a biker gang – shower, change clothes, sleep. Scully knocks on my door the next morning and when I open it just says, "Ruby's allowed visitors," and walks away so I can get changed and ready to go.

When we get to the hospital, Scully goes to chat with a nurse for a few minutes and comes back with, somehow, Ruby's chart (I don't know how she does that. And I don't want to.) "Nurse says she been awake for almost an hour," she says, as we walk down the hallway.

"Any ideas what caused the coma?" I ask, even though the coma bit didn't last.

"Er.., there's no sign of head trauma, no narcotic traces or electrolyte abnormalities, but her white blood cell count was sky high."

That reminds me of something – experiments, people who were also abducted, and astronauts. "By any chance was there attendant reduction in the lymphocyte population or a release of gluco-cordacoids?"

We stop outside Ruby's room. "Actually both, how did you know that?"

And I don't really know what either of those mean. "They're symptoms of prolonged weightlessness. Shuttle astronauts have reported similar imbalances."

There's a window in the door, and I can see someone moving around. I knock, and then Kevin opens the door. Ruby is in the bed, awake.

"Hi," says Scully. We walk in, and she looks at Ruby. "Hi Ruby."

"Who are you?

"We're with the FBI, I'm Special Agent Dana Scully and this is Fox Mulder."

"My mom said you might be coming by."

There is a little twinge of something in the back of my brain, but I ignore it.

"How are you feeling?" asks Scully.

"Fine I guess."

The Question. "Where were you Ruby? Can you tell us?"

She and Kevin look at each other. "It's okay Ruby," he says. "He knows."

"Ah, I'm not supposed to tell. They told me not to say."

Stupid aliens, covering their tracks. "Who told you?" She just looks at me. "Ruby, who told you?"

"Sweetheart, you don't have to say anything."

Darlene is there.

Scully tries to salvage the situation, but we both know it's lost. "You're right, we should wait until Ruby gets a little stronger."

"Can we speak outside for a moment?" We all duck out into the hallway. "I think that it's best that we put all of this, behind us. I mean, hasn't Ruby been through enough already?"

Oh no, no no no no... I try to fight what I see coming, because we're so close, just Ruby's testimony could give me something to look at, someplace to try to find – whatever. Where they leave their bodies or where they keep people in suspended animation. I won't lie, I want to know where they have the little girl in the time-impervious bubble. "I know how dis-oriented she must seem right now, but in a couple of weeks, maybe even a few days, we could..."

"I don't want her talking to you, or anyone."

No. Please no. Ruby could tell us so much, and from a psychological standpoint it's not good to keep traumatic experiences buried. "She should be encouraged to tell her story, not to keep it inside, it's important that you let her."

"Important to who? I have my daughter back, I don't want anymore trouble. Besides she can hardly remember anything."

What about next month? Next year? Ten years? Twenty? "But she will remember one day, one way or another, even if it's only in dreams. And when she does, she's gonna wanna talk about it, she's gonna _need_ to talk about it."

But she shakes her head. "Like I did? Listen to me, all of my life I have been ridiculed, for speaking my mind."

As have I. Doesn't she see how precious that is? "But it was the _truth_ Darlene."

"The _truth_ has caused me nothing but heartache, I don't want the same thing for her."

She's her own person! "It doesn't have to be that way for Ruby."

"As far as I'm concerned, she spent the last month on the back of a Harley Davidson."

Never mind that that's actually possible. "Is that what you're gonna tell Kevin?"

"I'm sorry."

And I believe she is sorry, too. That's the worst bit. She goes back into the room and I try to follow her, although God only knows what I'd say, when there is a hand on my shoulder.

Scully.

That's her function, after all, to keep me from opening doors where I should not. I should remember that.

Darlene pulls Kevin into the room and closes the door, and that's it. It's over.

* * *

After a routine flight home, and routine drive from the airport, I am restless and unnerved. That weekend, I don't have anyplace else to be, so I decide to go for a little drive. Seven hours later I'm in the church down the street from our house in Chilmark. I don't know why I'm here exactly. I hardly ever come here anymore. I just know it's time, now, to admit to myself certain truths, things my mother will never admit to and my father will never speak to me long enough to believe. Samantha might as well be dead – she is not coming home.

When she vanished, at first, there were cops and public notice and all the things you'd want to see. And then, gradually, it all went away as the months went by with no word. There was simply nothing else to be done – no other leads to follow. It has remained that way for more than twenty years. If Samantha ever comes home, she will not be the Samantha I knew. It is quite probable that no trace of my sister remains – even if she is alive, she is dead.

I walk in the door of the church and look around. We had the volunteers here, despite the fact that I was raised somewhat (in the secular sense) Jewish. They had coffee going all hours, and posters, and fliers, for five weeks, and then they closed up shop.

A year after Samantha was gone, there was a notice that there was to be a candlelight vigil for Samantha. And then the year after that and the year after that. Even when Samantha's search was pretty much called off, even when my parents divorced, even when none of us has been here for years and years and years, the vigil still happens, every year, on November 27.

I didn't know this until just now, when I walk in the door. It's not very obtrusive, but on a small table is a picture, one that was at one point used on the fliers they distributed and is now immortalized in this church – me and Samantha at the pool, grinning at the camera. She is twenty years older now, but I can still remember her that day, just an ordinary day for ordinary children, the last weekend before school started that year.

Shaking, I reach out and pick up the photo, then slowly take it out of the frame, which is placed under a small sign giving the date of November 27 and the note, "Annual Candlelight Vigil for the Safe Return of Samantha Mulder." I take the photo from it's frame, surprised to find that my mother's writing is on the back, giving the date and the legend, "Sammie and Fox," and I'm startled when someone behind me clears their throat.

"Can I help you?"

I don't even know how to begin to respond to that.

The woman is short, with curly gray hair and blue eyes. She looks like someone's grandmother. When she sees the picture in my hand, her eyes narrow. "I would appreciate if you put that back," she says, "That's the only copy we have."

I should give a speech of gratitude to her, but instead I say, "How long has she been missing?"

"Nearly twenty years," the woman replies. "I volunteered to distribute fliers for the first five weeks, but nothing ever came of it. She was just gone."

I think I remember her. Anna – something. "I know you."

She frowns at me. And then her eyes dart to the picture. "Fox?"

I nod.

"Oh, Fox, I had no idea you'd moved back here! After the divorce we never heard from you again. I had hoped you might come home someday, but you'll have to tell me where you're living so I can visit. I heard a rumor you moved to England!"

"I did," I tell her. "I went to Oxford, and then I came back and started working for the FBI. I'm just visiting – I live in Washington." Or close enough.

"Well, it's wonderful to see you anyway. How've you been? FBI?"

"Yeah, I'm an FBI agent now. I really love it," I lie or possibly tell the truth because I don't really know the difference anymore.

"You know," she says, "every few years someone will bring up the idea that maybe we should just stop having the vigil. That it's been so long and no one even remembers Samantha's disappearance. But I always tell them that someday she'll either have been gone so long that she must be dead or she'll come back and then we'll know she's alive. But either way, she deserves to know that someone remembers after all this time."

I don't have any clue what to say to that.

"Your father comes every year," she says.

What? "I didn't know."

"Well, he doesn't let anyone see him, really. We hold the vigil outdoors, just after sunset. There's a tree in the yard, see?" She points out the window to a huge old oak. "And every year there's a man standing there, in the shadows. He doesn't carry a candle, but one year I caught a glimpse – it was Bill."

Why wouldn't he show himself at something like this? Why wouldn't he tell me they still held the vigil? Usually it seems like he wants me to know stuff like this – like he blames me for Samantha. Like he thinks it's all my fault, which it is. It must be. I was responsible for her that night.

"If you'd like to go in," says Anna, gesturing to the sanctuary doors, "go right ahead. I'll be in the office all day."

I step into the sanctuary, not because it's ever been something I felt I needed, but because it's what she expects. I take a seat in a pew and stare at the stained glass and decide that I've gone nuts and I should really just leave but I don't. Instead I sit there and wait for some kind of inspiration.

My dad told me once, when I graduated from college, that it was my responsibility to be everything Samantha couldn't be, since I was the last person to be responsible for her. It makes sense to me, in a weird way, that that would be how it should be, because it was my fault. I'd spent a long time blaming myself by then. I'd gotten good at it. And I'd gotten used to it – it was mine, my own self-blame, my own security blanket of self-hatred.

But what does my father carry? He just stepped next door, and when he came back his baby was gone? What pain is it that he holds within him? Does he blame himself? I didn't get that psychology degree for nothing, you know. Maybe, after all this time, I finally understand something about my dad. Maybe blaming me is the only way he can keep from blaming himself.

I pull out the photo and look, really look at it. It may have been the last day we were on good terms – I was twelve, she was eight and annoying, and she always wanted me to play barbies with her. Barbies! I had more important things to do. I had baseball cards.

A tear runs down my face and onto the photo as I remember the way she screamed my name. So trusting – that I would save her. And I couldn't.

I know I should have been afraid that night. But I wasn't. Because of the voice in my head, the one that told me, _Do not be afraid. She will not be harmed. One day, she will return._

Maybe that's God and maybe aliens and maybe it's not anything at all, but the impulsive man in me that wants to believe thinks that here, in this place where every year they pray for her safe return, one more voice shouting to the empty sky couldn't hurt.

And maybe it could even help.


	6. Shadows

* * *

A/N: The "Tight Sphincters 'R Us" comment is a shoutout to Jolene Blalock, who provided 3500 people with great amusement last weekend at the Las Vegas Star Trek Convention, which may have set a world record for the number of times "Sphincter" was used in a single weekend.

Needless to say, the convention was not entirely PG-13.

Also, Papillion, Nebraska was chosen because my friends live there, not because I know of any psychokinesis occurring there.

And I know nothing about cars.

Finally, this chapter is dedicated to the Beckinator (Sorry, Wayno and Your Tracyocity) who is the best boss I ever had and is, in fact, so cool that if someone offed her and was after me, I _totally_ think she'd come back as a poltergeist to protect me from the lunatic.

* * *

The next few weeks pass mostly without incident. Blevins is silent on the subject of our report that says nothing at all about Ruby. Scully doesn't bring up Samantha. I make quiet plans to drive to Chilmarc for the candlelight vigil that I probably won't follow through with. Our lives go on.

One thing is that Scully doesn't object when I file Ruby under "Alien Abduction" rather than "Inconclusive". I regard this as progress.

One late afternoon in the middle of September, we are both called into Blevins' office. He greets us with a scowl and a "Come in and sit down, agents."

Which we do.

"I have a case for you," he says, which floors me and probably just about gives Scully a stroke.

"What kind of case, sir?" I ask, sure he's setting me up.

"I can't tell you."

_What​​?_ "May I ask why?"

"National security."

National Security. I hate those words sometimes. Most of the time. All the time.

"Sir," Scully asks, "what is it you need us to do?"

"I just want you to go to the Bethesda Naval Hospital and have a look at a couple of bodies."

Okay, no problem.

"At eleven o'clock tonight."

_What?_

"Sir?" Scully sounds as flummoxed as I am.

"We need to maintain constant vigilance, Agent. The hospital should be nearly deserted at eleven o'clock tonight. You will report to the morgue and meet three agents there who will brief you on whatever you're cleared to know."

"Which agents?" I ask, wondering if it's anyone I know.

"Not FBI," he elaborates. "Dismissed."

* * *

X

I make it out to the elevator before Scully recovers from her annoyance enough to let me really say anything at all, and even then she's tense. She doesn't like what happened in there. I can tell. I don't either, really. Not one bit.

"Mulder," she finally tells me, "don't start thinking conspiracy."

This is the very definition of conspiracy.

"There's nothing you can do," she adds. "We have to trust that there's a good reason not to tell us what's going on."

I know that – in theory. I also know I'm sick of getting the runaround, and I'm really sick of Blevins. Hopefully, I won't have to be sick of Blevins much longer, because the rumor is he's due for a promotion. God knows he a master of blowing smoke out his ass.

The elevator lets us out in the basement. It's after five, so I'm really only here to get my stuff and go. We walk into the office in silence, gather our things, and then leave for the parking lot. It's not until I'm about to get in my car that I realize that not only have I been mentally bitching Scully out for her silence, I haven't said anything at all.

"Scully-" I begin, but I can't finish that thought because I don't know where it leads. "I'll see you tonight."

* * *

When we arrive at the hospital, we are greeted by a guard (Secret Service? CIA? MIB? IMF, for all I can tell) who leads us into a morgue without saying a word. The door closes behind him and there we are, standing in cold storage with two women – one in a tan suit and one in a lab coat and scrubs – and a man – black man, black suit - who look like they shop at Tight Sphincters 'R Us. "Agent Scully, Agent Mulder, Chief Blevins assures us of your cooperation. We regret any inconvenience at this extreme hour," the Man in Black says.

Yeah, I could've had a date.

"We hope your expertise in extraordinary phenomena matters will help us in our investigation," adds Tan Suit.

I wonder if I can get anything out of them. "You're not FBI, are you?"

"Have you ever seen anything like this before?" asks Lab Coat. That would be a "no," then. Or given my reputation, maybe a "yes". She hands me the guy's chart and pulls the sheet off one of the corpses for Scully to look at while I try and fail not to flinch. The body also flinches. "Abnormal postmortem muscle reflex. Both corpses are still responding to high levels of electrostatic charge."

Yeesh.

"Any sign of external legions or surface burns?" asks Scully, frowning at the body.

"None."

Huh. I manage to look at the body without wincing. The worst part about this is that the body used to be a person – and now it's not. It's something else. You find yourself wondering about the person who lived here, what they ate, who they loved, when they stopped doing any of those things. "Time of death?"

She glances at Man in Black and Tan Suit, but Man in Black just blinks.

"Well, it can't be long," says Scully. "The body's still warm."

"Somatic death occurred sometime over 6 hours ago. Their body temperatures have yet to drop below 98.3 degrees."

That's weird. Right? I'm not a pathologist, but I say that's weird. "Where did you find them?" I ask. Nothing. Man in Black doesn't even blink this time. "Look, at least tell us the mode of transport!" I raise my voice and yank off my glasses. "That might tell us why the bodies haven't cooled." While they're out of the picture I take the opportunity to press the index finger and thumb of the nearest corpse's left hand onto the right and left lenses, respectively. Man, Tan, and Lab say nothing. It was a long shot anyway. I just keep yelling. "Hey, you called us down here. If you want some answers you have to give some."

"They traveled 60 minutes by air," says Man. That's about a 500 mile radius. And also doesn't explain why they're still warm.

"Thank you," I say, because it's _polite _and I just stole his evidence right under his nose.

"The most troubling aspect of their deaths is the throat area," says Lab, walking over to an X-Ray screen. Is she a doctor? She talks like one. "The larnyx, esophagus, and hyoid bone all have been crushed like chalk. There is no evidence of tissue damage. It's as if their throats were crushed... from the inside."

Well, that sums it up. Crushed from the inside. Not cryptic. Psychokinesis? It has all the elements of psychokinesis, but I've never seen this exact MO before. We both get a good look at the X-Ray and sure enough, even I can tell it's not normal. Scully winces. "Who are these guys?"I ask, but I don't expect an answer.

"If you've conducted your investigation, why consult us?" asks Scully.

"During your work on the X Files, have you ever seen anything like this?" asks Tan.

Yeah, I eat this for breakfast. Right. "Never." Well there was that one thing, but it's probably nothing. And certainly nothing I'm gonna tell three people in a darkened morgue at eleven o'clock at night when they won't even tell me their aliases.

The man pipes up again. "Well, thank you for your time Agent Mulder, Scully. If any inquiry into this meeting be made, we request full denial."

Jeez.

"I'd say you people already suffer from full denial," I tell them before I grab Scully – okay, _guide_ Scully – out of the room and we leave them to their mysterious corpses.

* * *

Out in the hall, the guard is gone. We walk back to our cars, and Scully rounds on me. "You lied. You have seen it before, I can tell. You lied to them."

Shocked? "I would never lie. I willfully participated in a campaign of misinformation."

"Who do you think they were?"

The Vatican Police? I don't know. Personally, I want to say the Impossible Mission Force, but somehow I doubt she'd take that seriously. "NSA, CIA, some convert organization Congress will uncover in the next scandal." It doesn't matter anyway, really. "It's not important who they are but what they have and I'm sure they have no idea because they pulled us in. I have X Files. Each case with an element of what we saw tonight. Residual electrostatic charge, internal mutilation without any external causality... but none has all the elements combined in one case."

"How can the esophagus be crushed without the neck even being touched?"

Here we go. I love this part. "Psychokinetic manipulation," I whisper.

Let the games begin. "Psychokinesis? You mean how Carrie got even at the prom?" She is trying really hard to keep her face straight, in her defense.

I love working with Scully, I realize, and it hits me like a ton of bricks. I love working with Scully. "The Russians were doing studies on it. The Chinese still are. Their findings are kept secret." We get in the elevator down to ground level, and Scully draws in a deep breath and then lets it out. I love telling her this stuff.

"Okay, I'm intrigued. How can we investigate, we have _nothing_ to go on." I put an arm around her and ignore the flinching as I hold the glasses up to my face and breathe on each lens.

I win.

* * *

So we go back to work the next morning and have the prints run on a pair of glasses in an evidence bag that have a fascinating resemblance to my reading glasses. Ten minutes later the result pops up on the computer in the print lab and Scully's run off his file.

"Mohamed Amalaki. Convictions: Illegal possession of firearms. Illegal possession of explosives. Falsification of export licenses."

"He has ties to extremist group operating in the US. The Isfahan. They take their name from a city in Iran. Recently they've been working out of Philadelphia." Scully's already on page two.

Bingo. "That's 60 air minutes."

One little phone call should do it all. "I'll talk to the Philly P.D," she says, and heads back downstairs.

* * *

I have no idea what she said to them, but she comes back twenty minutes later saying a desk sargeant told her that there was an ATM robbery recently where the robbers dropped dead. I guess everyone's talking about it.

* * *

In the end, it's all too easy to get travel approval to Philly. All I had to do was write a 302 for a psychokinesis case, and it sailed through without Blevins even noticing. He must have gotten held up doing some asskissing or something, because that's not like him.

But whatever. Who am I to complain?

The next day, we fly to Philadelphia and rent a car, and from the airport we drive to a nameless motel and from there to the local PD without Blevins even knowing what we're up to which is just how I like it.

The desk sergeant sends us to a Detective Ericsson, who sits behind his desk and frowns at us in the PD's own version of a bullpen.

"Can I help you?" he asks, when he realizes who we're here for.

Scully flashes her I.D. "This is Agent Mulder, I'm Agent Scully. I'm here to ask you about a case."

"What can do I have that could _possibly_ be of any interest to you?" he asks – and not without a little hostility.

"It was a possible ATM robbery," she begins, and his whole demeanor changes.

"You're here about that?"

I step in. "We were hoping to take a look, if you don't mind." One look at his face says he doesn't mind at all.

"Mind? I'm relieved."

That's a new one on me. "How so?"

He pulls out the file, which we've already read, but the crime scene photos are a lot less grainy. "It's just... spooky," he admits, "and it makes no sense. If you want it, it's all yours."

This is not a reaction I get often, and I don't know how to deal with it.

Scully scans through the file. "Is there a way we could see the crime scene?"

"Sure," he replies, "I'll even have the officer who found the bodies take you down there."

* * *

So an officer by the name of Officer Packard drives us down in his squad car – I have to ride in the back, like a criminal – to an alley downtown, where there is, for some reason that completely escapes me, an ATM that only a crazy person would use at night – or someone with a death wish.

He drives us up to the entrance of the alley and we get out of the car. It smells like a dumpster, and I've avoided alleys since I tried my hand at sleeping in one.

"Where, exactly, did you find them?" asks Scully.

"It was last Wednesday night. I was on routine patrol. This is where we found them," he points to an area on the ground in front of the ATM.

"Who discovered their bodies?" she asks.

"Nobody. It was about 10. I was on patrol. Just saw them hanging around." Literally. They were hanging around off a fire escape. "The folks that come around here, they don't witness very much. You hear what I'm saying?"

The file doesn't even say for sure it's a robbery, just "found in the vicinity of an ATM." Well, no kidding – it's the only thing in this alley. That and the scared-looking woman using it.

What kind of lunatic would use it in the middle of the night I'll never understand.

"If they were trying to rob someone, it would show up on the ATM camera," says Scully.

It's a place to start.

* * *

We drive over to the local FBI and I call US Bank, and sure enough, they can get us the footage. Someone messengers a video to us and we get a room to look it over. The notes with the video show the procedure the ATM uses – it can't record everything all the time.

"A daily visual record is made of everyone who makes a transaction," I inform Scully, translating the technobabble into something resembling English. Scully's reading the other page – the list of people who used the ATM that day.

"We'll just have to interview everyone who was at the machine before 10 last night," says Scully, but of course that's rendered moot when we see footage of a woman using the machine and then grabbed by two men and dragged away.

Kind of a giveaway.

It's the entry at 9:45, I note, but Scully is already flipping through the list. "There. Back up," I mutter, even though I'm holding the remote. Scully, next to me, gasps.

It's on the rewind that I see a blur on the screen – a fourth person? Behind the poor woman getting attacked.

What the hell?

It's there, just for a second, and then it's gone.

"Lauren Kyte. 858 Franklin, Bensalem. Why would the Isfahan being robbing someone for 40 bucks at an ATM machine?"

Not another person. It is just there for a second – it looks like a ghost. "Look at that." I stop the film and watch it sit there. It's man-shaped, but it only shows for a second or two.

"It's another person."

"Maybe, maybe not," I reply, but I don't think it is.

"Well, the resolution is too poor. It won't help much to enhance it."

On this we are agreed. "That leaves only one person we know we can talk to."

And so we drive to 858 Franklin, Bensalem, to see Lauren Kyte. There's a U-haul trailer outside her house, which gives me the impression that she's planning to move, so we'd better move fast here. I don't know how long we'll have her.

I knock on the door and listen for footsteps, a pause, and then -

"Hello?"

"Miss Lauren Kyte, please," I say, and the door opens, revealing the woman in the video. _She's just a kid,_ I realize, and I flash my badge. "I'm Agent Fox Mulder and this is Agent Dana Scully. We're with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Do you mind if we come in?" I'm not taking no for an answer.

"Um, I was just in the middle of ..."

"Thank you. We won't be long." I squeeze my way past her, and Scully follows. She's good cop this time, and I don't even have to ask. Out comes the file, and next thing we know, Lauren's looking at her attackers.

"Have you seen either of these two men before?"

"No." Not "maybe," not "I don't know," just "no"? Yeah, right.

"Take your time," Scully prompts.

"I'm sorry. I've never seen them before."

Yeah-huh. Scully pulls out the surveillance photo from the ATM. I love ATMs. "I'm afraid you have. This is a surveillance picture from your ATM."

Silence. As it should be. She just lied to the FBI – not that I intend to push it. "Can you tell us what happened that night?"

"Um... These guys, I was depositing my paycheck. They grabbed me, I got away. I ran. I just didn't want to file a report."

"They were found dead," I tell her, and she does that freezing thing people do where they aren't freezing at all.

Scully pulls out the blowup of the background figure in the video. "Have you ever seen this person before?"

"No. I'm sorry. I can't tell you."

Not 'I don't know.' Hmmm. "Does that mean you know?"

"It means I can't tell you who it is."

Uh huh. She knows something. I pull out my card and hand it to her. "When you can tell me, this is the number where I can be reached at any time, okay?"

"Um hmmm."

So we walk out her door, and I don't know about Scully but I am totally dissatisfied.

* * *

We make it to the car almost before Scully starts poking holes in Lauren's story. "A woman her size breaking free and outrunning those men?"

"And somehow crushing their necks?" We get in the car and put on the seat belts, and when I look up I can see Lauren watching out the window. Creepy.

"She knows who the other person in that photo is."

Yes she does. "Packing, running away, from what?" I start the car. Time to look into Lauren Kyte.

And that's when the parking brake goes off, the car reverses, and the doors lock.

Without us touching them.

Even as I'm panicking, there is a part of me, in the back of my mind, saying "Explain this, Scully." Even as the car spins backward and Scully yells, "What the hell's going on?" and I tell her to hang on while I pump the brakes and we back into an intersection where we are hit by another car. Even then, I want her to explain it.

But I settle for, "You okay?"

"Yeah."

The other driver is shaking his head and looking around, so I assume he's alive. And Lauren closes her curtains. I guess she's done watching.

* * *

X  
They took the car to the garage and put us in separate ambulances to get checked out. By the time they tell me I'm okay to leave, Scully's _still_ getting looked at, so I duck over to where they're checking her heart rate. "Everything okay?" I ask her, since she's a doctor and the paramedics are... not.

"Mulder, I'm fine. They're worried because my blood pressure dropped."

That doesn't sound good.

"But I'm fine."

"You're sure?" I ask her. This is the second car-related accident-like-thing she's been in since she met me.

"It's nothing," she tells me. "They just have to cover all the bases. Go check out what's up with the car."

I nod at her. Message received. "Meet you at the garage?"

"Okay," she sighs as a paramedic named Ramirez slides the blood pressure cuff back onto her arm.

* * *

The cop who gave me a ride to the FBI garage has to go back on patrol, so it's just me there chatting with the mechanic until we get the green light to do whatever it is we're gonna do. He's a skinny guy with really really blond hair, and he doesn't have a high opinion of Fords.

"Fix Or Repair Daily," he tells me, glaring at the car as it is raised up above our heads so we can see underneath it. "Fords are the most _unreliable_ cars on the planet. They don't have the proper inspections before they leave the factory, the parts are substandard, everything's about cutting costs instead of making a quality vehicle..." he trails off as he examines something. "Nothing wrong with this one though."

"What?" I'm dumbfounded – especially the way it acted.

"Not a thing. _Yet_. Only a hundred miles on it. All brand new. Not that there wouldn't be, mind you, there's just nothing wrong with it _yet._" He pushes the button to lower it down and I examine the side panel with the sizeable dent in it. Nothing wrong indeed. "I have to go back to work now," he adds. "I'll be around if you have any more questions." I keep staring at the dent, trying to convince myself that I shouldn't be surprised.

It just happened so fast.

The headlights are reflecting off the inside of the garage door. I stare at it for ten seconds before the meaning of that hits me. The car is turned off.

"Hey!" I call after the mechanic. What is his name?

He turns back. "Help you?"

"The headlights."

He frowns, walks around to the front of the car, and frowns some more. "That's weird."

You don't say.

"Doesn't happen."

Well, it did.

"I guess there must be a faulty connection. The battery's still connected to the headlights. Maybe an electrical problem, locked the doors, made the car go. Only one problem with that."

"What's that?" I am forced to ask. I don't really know cars.

"Cars don't work like that. Power locks, maybe, but they can't put themselves in reverse." He opens the hood and disconnects the battery. The headlights stay on. "No, this has to be the filaments themselves. Must still be heated from some electrical charge somehow."

How? "How does that happen?" I ask him.

"No idea." He walks away again.

So it's like the bodies. Psychokinesis seems more and more likely – especially with Lauren staring at us during the accident. Creepy. Better wear a suit of armor next time I see her. Or maybe just go without a tie – somehow a noose seems like a stupid idea around a psychokinetic.

This should be fun to explain to Scully.

I move back to look at the door. Dented like crazy. There's no way around it – I could have been killed. Maybe should have been killed. I reach inside and start switching the lights on and off. They stay on.

"Hi."

Scully's back, I realize. "Hi. The paramedics check you out?"

"Yeah. I'm fine. Except I have a waiting-in-line-at-the-DMV-sized headache."

Mine's kinda killing me too. I leave the lights off. "Mine's more IRS sized."

"They check out the car?"

And here we go. Let the games begin. "Yeah, it's brand new. Only a 100 miles."

"Then someone tampered with it while we were in her house."

I walk around to the front of the car. "Mechanic said everything is in proper order. Nothing cut, nothing greased. Check out the lights." And here we go.

"They are on."

"They're not. The filaments are heated due to massive levels of electrostatic charge. Just like the bodies at the morgue. And isn't it interesting that Lauren Kyte was present at both incidents?"

"She was in our presence the entire time we were at her house," says Scully. Clearly she doesn't get it.

Well somehow she did this. "What if it's possible somehow to raise a body's electrostatic charge to levels we've been seeing and use that energy to affect objects?"

"If a person could generate that much energy, their body would break down. They'd start glowing like those lights."

I've seen these files. "Well there's evidence of this all through the X Files." Papillion, Nebraska. "Furniture moving untouched, objects levitating, unexplained electrical discharges." That was a fun case – and before her time. "Frequently people who have psychokinetic power are unaware of their own capability."

"Are you saying Lauren Kyte crashed our car?"

Well who else? "Either that or a poltergeist."

Scully glares at me and singsongs "They're here..." just like on _Poltergeist. _Cute.

So I adopt my most serious voice. "They may be."

She pops the trunk and we grab our suitcases. "Oh, come on Mulder, look at the tangible evidence." Yep, I love working with her. "Two Mid-East extremists are killed trying to assault a woman working for a manufacturer of parts for the Defense Department. While we questioned her our car is sabotaged." Or not sabotaged. "Now in both those cases, someone else may have committed those acts. Maybe the same someone we saw in those ATM photos." We put our suitcases in the new car she brought with her. "The mystery isn't psychokinetic energy, it's her accomplice." In the time she's ranted, the lights have finally gone out.

At least, either way, the course of action is the same. "So, Scully, what say we stake out Lauren Kyte?"

* * *

We pull her record through the FBI and scan through it in the parking lot of her work. I do the spying and Scully does the reading, and this time she makes me use my binoculars, which up to this point were _exclusively _meant for the spotting of UFOs. Anyway, we park outside HTG Industrial Technologies and wait. Lauren pulls up ten minutes later and walks across the parking lot as Scully reads the file. "She's clean. No arrest, not even a traffic ticket. The only thing is, she's in deep with her credit card company... 15,000." Typical.

Lauren stops where someone is changing the name on an assigned parking space. I can't really hear what she's saying, but there's a lot of angry gestures and closed body language. The name on the space, I can see, was Howard Graves.

"A little upset over losing a parking space, wouldn't you say?" I ask Scully. Especially when it's not even Lauren's space. "So, who is Howard Graves anyway?"

* * *

More microfiche, more Dramamine. The headline we eventually find is "Howard Graves Suicide Creates Shock." He also worked at HTG.

The pieces begin to fall into place for me. "She was his secretary." Scully, master of the file, doesn't correct me. "That's three people dead in the last month all associated with Lauren Kyte." Also a fact. Can't deny that, eh Scully. The article goes on to say that 'ol Howard slashed his wrists in the bathtub. Ugh. I've always hated that one.

* * *

When we pick Lauren back up at the end of her workday, she drives to the cemetery to put flowers on a grave. After she leaves, we check it out to discover that it's Howard Graves' grave.

Now I've had some bosses who weren't assholes, but I wouldn't put flowers on their graves if they died. Life would go on. Most of them, I'd actually celebrate. "You don't see too many bosses graves without people dancing on it," I remark, mostly to hear what Scully'll say to that.

"Look at this one." Scully is looking at the stone next to Howard's: "Sarah Lynn Graves September 8, 1966 to August 3 1969".

Oh boy.

There is groundskeeper nearby, and I turn to him. "Excuse me, Sir? Is there an office here so that I can get information on those people?" There has to be.

"Who? I attend_ every_ funeral. I'm the _last person_ to see them put to rest." He has one of those incredibly quiet creepy voices.

Did you attend one in 1969? Somehow I believe that you did. "Do you know how Sarah Lynn was related to Howard Graves?"

"_His daughter_. They were at home one day and _he didn't latch the pool gate_. She_ drowned_. His wife left him a year later. She's buried in a plot in the Northeast corner." Creepy.

Poor Howard. "Thank you, Sir."

"You're welcome." He walks away, and Scully and I both turn to look at Sarah's grave.

"She was only three years old," says Scully.

She was born the same year as Lauren Kyt.e. "If she'd lived, she'd be Lauren's age." Scully looks at me and I look back and I think she understands what I'm saying – the same way I have a soft spot in my heart for women who would be Sam's age – roughly Scully's age, actually. You can't blame me – and you can't blame Howard if he did the same thing.

It's in our natures.

* * *

After a full day of surveillance, Scully and I fly home. Or at least Scully goes home, but I took darkroom photography in college and so I go into the photo lab to do the surveillance photos. It's soothing and calming and all those things I usually don't bother with, but tonight... tonight I want to.

I drop the photos into the fixer one at a time, hoping for something. Anything. A shadow, a face, a flicker of light. Proof of _something._ I'm so sick of having nothing, of Scully staring at me like I've gone nuts. She has an explanation for everything – Tooms crawled in an improperly latched window, Ellens Air Base had a good hypnotist, the Jersey Devil had some serious psychological issues, and so on and so forth.

So yeah, I can't help it. I want to prove it to her. Sue me for being a typical guy, only this time it's not about sports teams and who's winning the NBA playoffs and things like that. No, not for Fox Mulder. This is about psychokinesis. What can I say? It's just who I am, and I make no apologies. And I don't mind watching the playoffs either.

I work through the night, developing the damn things. It's not until the next morning, around three, that I get a good look. There is someone in the house with Lauren.

Okay, not someone. A shape behind her, in one photo of her standing at the window. So it's probably _not _psychokinesis then. Dammit, I hate when Scully's right.

But if it's not psychokinesis, what is it? Someone sneaked out and did something to our car the mechanic couldn't detect? No, something's still fishy. I just wish I knew what.

When Scully gets in, I'll have her come up to get the photo analyzed.

I wander back down to the bullpen and check my email. There's the report Scully wrote on our trips – she's taken to keeping me update on what she's ratting to Blevins, in case there's something I want her to reword. Not that she'll necessarily do that, but at least forewarned is forearmed. This time I have to admit she's done a good job making it look like we didn't go over Blevins' stupid head.

"After hearing rumors of suspicious electrical activity surrounding deaths in the Philadelphia area, Agent Mulder and I decided to investigate and offer assistance to the Philadelphia PD, after a brief conversation with local police secured us an invitation to work on the case. During that time, we were attacked via sabotage of our rented car. Although we sustained no serious injuries, both Agent Mulder and myself are determined to find the identity of our attacker."

Good-no mention of the bodies we saw at Bethesda. Let Blevins wonder.

"Investigation of the deaths led us to a witness, a woman named Lauren Kyte – an employee at a company called HTG Industries - who had recently lost her boss to an apparent suicide. Miss Kyte has a clean background with no indications of affiliation with any suspicious activities or groups, however we believe our attacker was attached to her in some way."

Scully promised to do a more detailed background check on Lauren when we got home, but we know she's not sacrificing animals and she doesn't belong to the Istafhan.

"Further investigation into Lauren Kyte's personal history reveals an estrangement from her family. Phone records confirm no contact with her parents for the last two years. Her actions observed during surveillance indicate a strong relationship between Lauren Kyte and her employer, the late Howard Graves."

And now we get to the meat of it. He was like a father to her – the father she's not in touch with. And he had lost a daughter. They must have been very close, I suppose, but not in a sexual way. What would he have done to protect her? And why the hell did he kill himself anyway?

"Was this relationship somehow the motivation for his suicide? How are the attack and the subsequent murders of the Isfahan agents related, if at all? I am certain that the answers to these questions lie in finding the identity of Lauren Kyte's accomplice."

Quite a leap, Scully, but we don't have any reason to think Lauren's innocent – or guilty.

I hate this not knowing.

* * *

She comes in at eight, while I'm going over the bank robberies for the thousandth time, trying to predict the robbers' next move. I'm getting nowhere except a headache, and I don't notice when the door opens.

"Mulder, how long have you been here?"

Long enough to have to change into the extra shirt I keep in the closet. "A while. I developed the surveillance photos."

She nods, once, enough to tell me she at least suspects I didn't sleep last night. "Anything good?"

Would the photo lab be in yet? I glance at my watch. "I don't know yet. We need to have it enhanced." It's only 8:15 – they might be in already. I pull out the photo. "There."

"Mulder, that could be a coat rack."

I suppose it could, except- "I didn't see a coat rack when we were there."

She sighs. Deeply.

"I just want to have it analyzed, that's all," I add.

She nods again. "That's probably a good idea." She punches in some numbers on the phone and waits for a minute. "Hi, it's Agent Scully – Good. How are you?"

She knows the photo lab?

"We have a surveillance photo we want a closer look at, is now a good time? Really? Great, we'll be up in ten. Yes, Mulder too." Ouch. "It could be nothing, but it's the only lead we- yes, yes, I know. No, it's not small and green."

I can see where this is going.

"An ottoman? Really? Well, this definitely isn't an ottoman."

They had to bring that up, didn't they.

"Thanks," she says, "I'll see you later. Coffee next week?" She hangs up the phone.

Scully has coffee with someone in the photo lab?

* * *

We get up there and meet a technician named Malcolm Jones, Scully's friend. Not what I expected. He looks like her father.

"Agent Mulder? Hi, Malcolm Jones." He shakes our hands. "It's good to see you, Dana." She squirms a little bit. "This the picture you needed?" He takes it from me and looks it over. "Yeah, that looks like something. Let me see here, we can set you up right over here -" he gestures to a comptuer with two chairs in front of it - " and I'll just scan this puppy in -" he puts it in a scanner and presses the green button - " and the program should load. Have you used photo imaging software before?"

Yes, I have, and so has Scully. She nods, since it doesn't sound like he'll stop talking anytime soon.

"It has a built in enchancer that automatically renders everything in the sharpest possible focus. Sometimes we only have a few pixels to work with. Right now I'm on this bank robbery case, and the security camera pictures are just atrocious. We only got a few usable images."

"That Willis' case?" I ask him.

"Yeah, real stinker, can't see anything you need to on those cameras. Banks really should be the first people to upgrade."

Probably true. "Thanks," I tell him, because they've gotten some pretty clear images off those crappy cameras. He sits down in the chair in front of the computer and I take the other one while Scully stands behind. He types in a few instructions and it zooms in on the window.

That's definitely something. In fact, it's a blurry person. I wait to see what Scully's gonna say.

"That looks like something," Jones tells me. "Let's see if we can clear it up."

A few more keys are pressed and a bar marked "enhancing" pops up.

"Enhance it by 10," says Scully. How much does she know about this? And why the hell is this guy doing her bidding? Malcolm Jones clicks on the number 10. A face appears. But not just any face. No siree. "That's Howard Graves. He's alive." Scully, master of the scientific standard of obvious.

Huh. Somehow, I doubt that. They tend to be pretty clear on people's deaths when they cut them open in the morgue. "Not necessarily."

"He's standing right there."

Yes he is. "You may have been right about the poltergeist," I tell her, because I don't know how else this is possible. I mean, by Scully's rules, it's not possible.

"Mulder, that's him. He's alive."

Fine, Scully, you think he's alive? Let's check. "Okay, who do we call about that?" I could find out, but she'll know.

She frowns. "The doctor who autopsied him," she says, but it sounds more like a question, almost. And then she swallows and turns back to Jones. "Thanks so much, Malcolm. We owe you."

He smiles. "Just buy the coffee next time, Dana, and we're even." He nods over to another area of the room. "If you'll excuse me -" He goes back to work.

Is he _flirting_ with her?

Is she flirting back?

* * *

So we drive back to Philadelphia, which is 90 minutes of License Plate Game, and wind up in the local offices of the National Medical Examiners. Apparently, the National Medical Examiners Office is essentially where they keep the coroners when they're in a city where they have one of these offices. Which I did not need to know ever before and probably never will again.

We check in and walk down to the basement, because even in Forensic Bureaucrat Heaven, autopsies must be conducted in the most dreary place possible. Scully is looking for someone whose name she saw in the Graves file, whose office is down here – somewhere.

I still think she should just let go and admit that Graves was a ghost, but I think we all know she won't do that. She can't.

Ghosts are pretty out there. I'm the first to admit that.

And if someone had been in the house I think we would have noticed while we were watching. I know that, and so does Scully, so I have to push her buttons a bit.

"Scully, don't you think it's _plausible_ that maybe just maybe Howard Graves is a ghost?"

She doesn't spare me a second glance. "I think Howard Graves faked his own death."

Uh huh. "Do you know how difficult it is to fake your own death? Only one man has pulled it off, Elvis."

She ignores the King.

"He and Lauren Kyte are in on something. Maybe an illegal deal through his company. Something the CIA was interested in."

Possibly true. "You may be right." She stops in front of a door. Ellen Bledsoe, ME. She may be right, which is why we're here. Just one teeny little problem.

"Wait, you think I'm right?"

Did I say that? I said _may _be right. "Sure, all you got to do is prove that Howard Graves is still alive." And with that I knock, cheerfully.

She'll never pull that off.

* * *

Ellen Bledsoe invites us in when Scully pulls out her badge, and I let the two of them chat. Scully explains her medical background, Bledsoe nods her way through that, and then Scully pulls surveillance photo, which Bledsoe scans and then nods.

And then Scully drops the bombshell.

"I think he may have faked his death."

She stares at us.

I love that I'm not the one getting this look.

"Howard Graves is _very_ dead."

"May we see the autopsy report, please?" Bledsoe pulls out a file and tosses it to us.

"Knock yourself out."

Scully scans through it. Way more detailed than what we had.

"Cause of death... arterial hemorrhage..."

"4 to 6 liters of blood down the tub."

Yuck.

"Well there seems to be some blood work missing here," says Scully.

"We only do that when we suspect homicide."

Yeah, great. Missing bloodwork is just what will help Scully get past her theory. Maybe it was someone else will be next. An imposter! I'll just beat her to that. "I don't suppose you ran any dental conformation?"

"What for? It was him."

Oh boy.

"How did you know?" Scully asks.

"It said so on the toe tag."

Yeah. Great. Better and better. And I bet I know what's coming next.

"Who made positive ID on the body?"

But I know.

Scully's the one who says it. "Lauren Kyte."

And I remember the size of his plot at the cemetery. Not exactly 6x2. "But Howard Graves was cremated. There would be no way to run a dental check or to get a DNA sample."

But Scully has a little ray of hope. "Yes, there is. His body's tissues and organs were donated."

Okay, so that could help. "How do we track those down?"

She scans the rest of the page. "Extraction was performed at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital. I'll call and talk to someone in the donor program."

She dials her cellular phone and steps out into the hall, leaving me to sit there with Dr. Bledsoe and try not to fidget, which turns out to be pretty easy, because when Scully's done we'll all know that not only is Howard Graves dead and cremated, but first they cut his organs out, so there's no possible way he could be alive.

No way.

I love being right all the time.

Scully steps back into the room. "We have an appointment with a Doctor Ryker in cryogenics in an hour," she informs me, and then turns back to Dr. Bledsoe. "Thank you for the files. If we need anything else, may I call you?"

Bledsoe takes her leave of Scully and me, to which I barely pay attention, because I'm right and about to be proven it. Howard Graves is dead dead dead, which means that whoever is in Lauren Kyte's hosue that looks like him is definitely either an impostor or a ghost, and I'm pretty sure when he starts walking through walls the ghost bit will seem a lot more likely.

But, I realize as I'm heading to the car, the first part is that I need to get Scully to believe that Howard Graves is dead, so I keep silent except for map reading as we drive across town to the hospital, park the car, and make our way to the cryogenics lab. Even as I want to be doing backflips, I don't say a single word, because this time she is _going_ to admit it – that I am right right right.

And then I may very well start cackling.

But that will be justified.

We take an elevator to the basement, because where else would you have a cryogenics lab, and come to think of it - "Why is it we need a cryogenics lab, Scully?"

"They stored his neural matter for scientific research," she tells me. "We're going to run a DNA and compare it to the bloodwork from his last physical. That was a week before his death, the hospital still has a sample on file, and it was his personal physician who did the exam – he should know if Howard Graves was really Howard Graves. It's airtight, Mulder."

Yes, it really does sound that way doesn't it.

We turn a corner and come face to face with a man in a lab coat. "Doctor Ryker?" asks Scully.

"That's me. Agents Scully and... Mulder?"

Wow, she bothered to tell him I'd be coming along.

"That's right," says Scully, as Ryker and I shake hands. "Have you had time to pull the records for Howard Graves?"

He gestures toward a window in the wall, where we can see hospital employees working. "Howard Graves is in 5 different people. They harvested his organs immediately after death. His kidneys were sent to Boston, his liver to Dallas, and his corneas to Portland, Oregon. They've all been transplanted. Because of his age, we could only cryo-preserve the dura matter, the membrane of the spinal column. We have Mr. Graves' hospital records, we'll extract a sample, run a test and in a couple of hours... confirm the identity of the donor."

Perfect.

"That should give us the confirmation we need," Scully tells him. "Thank you."

And then I'll win.

So we sit in the waiting room in our uncomfortable chairs and wait. And wait and wait and wait. I've never been good at waiting.

Naturally, my phone rings just as they come with the results. I pick up the phone. "Mulder."

Scully's wrong anyway.

"It's Lauren Kyte. How soon can you get to my house?"

Now she comes forward? Now? "Why?"

"Please hurry." She hangs up.

I put the phone back in my pocket and turn to Scully. "The tests are conclusive, the dura matter does belong to Howard Graves. He is indeed very dead."

I win, but it doesn't feel like it.

"That was Lauren Kyte. She said to meet her at her house and then she hung up."

Scully sighs. "Whatever's going on, we need to get her to tell us what it is. How long do you think, half an hour?"

Or so. "Let's go." Whatever's in the house has been there at least since Graves died. I should have gotten some salt or something. Holy water, I don't know.

When we get to Lauren's, the screaming can be heard so loud that I don't know how it is the neighbors haven't called the police. I take the front and Scully takes the back. There's a dead woman right behind the door. There is a man hanging from the rafters. Seriously, in the middle of the living room. Lauren is crying in a corner, so I'm guessing she didn't kill him. When Scully comes in, the man falls to the ground and I can see very clearly that he was held up by nothing at all.

Not a poltergeist my ass.

Lauren's crying and clinging to Scully, who is patting her back with one hand and reaching for her cell phone with another, so I decide to ease her burden a bit and pull out my phone. 911 awaits.

* * *

We end up taking Lauren in to the police station, even though there's not a shred of evidence she killed anyone, because two people just wound up dead in her home. They stick her in Interrogation, because where else would you talk to a victim of poltergeist activity? The police want to question her, but I'm FBI and what I say goes so Scully and I get first crack at it.

We walk in and I sit down while Scully leans against the wall and waits for me to do my thing so she can jump in and prove that someone could possibly be alive when their dura matter is in cryogenic storage (she'll never be able to prove that).

Lauren continues to shake.

"Lauren?" I ask her. No answer. "Do you mind if we ask you some questions?"

She shrugs. It's a start.

Scully jumps in. "You know, you're not under arrest. You're just here for questioning. The sooner you talk to us the sooner you get to go home." Nothing. I didn't expect there to be. She's probably thinking if she tells us, we'll think she's crazy. Of course, I have to remind myself, she's half right. "What happened to those people tonight?" Yeah, Scully. That'll help. She thinks you won't believe her. "Do you have any idea who they might be? Why did they attack you?" Let's just throw all the questions at her. I pick up the picture, the one from the ATM that is Howard Graves' ghost and walk around the table, invading her personal bubble without trying to be threatening.

"Do you know who this is?" Which is when Man shows up.

Crap.

"Scully, Mulder... He'll keep an eye on her." He motions to the officer who followed him in. "Come. Now."

Not good.

We follow him into the hallway, where we find Tan waiting for us, only now she's in a pink suit. Great. Tag-team. "You've seriously compromised our investigation."

Our investigation has nothing to do with their investigation – I guarantee they're not looking into the paranormal. They're counterterrorism or something. "We were following leads pertaining to an X File," I explain, which is allowed no matter what they're up to.

"I want to know every detail of your activities concerning this case," the man says.

Scully, to my shock, jumps in. "What case? You're the ones who've been withholding information."

Score one for the visiting team. Everyone clams up.

Time to nip this in the bud. "Then we have nothing more to talk about," I tell them, and we both go tor return to Lauren when I realize they're following us.

They want to talk now. The woman begins. "We believe HTG Technologies was selling restricted parts to the Isfahan. Partial serial numbers from their manifest were recovered in the wreckage of a July bombing of a Navy transport van."

Well holy shit. I was right. Counterterrorism. "How's Lauren Kyte involved?"

The man answers this time. "We don't quite know. Your actions impeded our investigation."

_Our_ actions? How could we possibly have interfered? So far we got in a car wreck and tested some donated dura matter. It doesn't matter anyway. "In any case, we don't have enough evidence to hold her. If she doesn't talk, she goes free and we lose our chance to break this company."

"I could make her talk," Man says, and he is scary. I don't think this is a good idea.

But he could stand a little bit of the run-around. Still, if I don't warn him, that's manslaughter. "My advice to you: don't get rough with her."

He doesn't bat an eye, just turns and walks into the interrogation room. I take a chair outside and wait for the screams. Scully sits next to me, and the woman goes in to observe the interrogation. At least there'll be a witness this time to the fact that Lauren's not doing these things.

We wait for twenty minutes before the woman leaves observation and enters the interrogation room. Another forty minutes later, the door to interrogation opens. "That was a waste of time," the woman is telling her partner. She keeps walking, but the man stops and regards us for a moment with something that looks suspiciously like respect.

"Your turn," he says, before he follows her off into the sunset." I love being right.

So we take our turn now, and walk into the room.

Scully begins, cautiously. "Lauren?"

"I won't talk to you, either."

Occam's Razor. And reverse psychology. "Okay, then you're free to go." She gets up then, and walks to the door, and then she stops.

"I can't go back to that house."

Bingo. "Why? Because of Howard Graves?"

"He's dead."

Yeah. "I know. He's watching over you, isn't he?"

She does that freezing without freezing thing again. "Yes." She nods.

And now I get my turn, oh my yes. "Tell us, Lauren. We can help end it."

She walks until she gets to the corner of the room and leans against the wall, facing us. "Okay."

Scully hits record.

"I don't know if you've ever been a secretary. Sometimes your boss can talk as if you weren't even in the room, which can hurt, you know? Sometimes... you're all he has to talk to. Which is how it was all the time with me and Howard. One night, late, I went into his office. He was crying, more scared than sad. The Pentagon contracts were being canceled, the company was going under, he felt personally responsible for each of his employees... seeing and feeling their fear every day... it really wore him down. Then this one time, Dorland came with that group... that Mid East group... Isfahan, that terrorist group. They'd buy parts at an outrageous price. Not just once, but for as long as they could get away with it. That night Howard was crying, he'd just found out the Isfahan had just claimed responsibility for killing a couple of sailors in Florida. He was never the same. And I thought that was why he killed himself. But he didn't... I saw ... Howard showed me how Dorland had him killed. Made it look like a suicide because he see Howard was going to put an end to the deal."

Okay, so Dorland's the bad guy and Howard is trying to – what? "So now Howard is protecting you?"

"It sounds so ridiculous."

Scully sees the benefit of playing along, at least. "But you believe it."

"He was closer to me than my father. I told him that. I still feel his presence. Sometimes... I even smell his aftershave. If you just could've ... seen ... the things I've seen... I just... want all that to go away. I'm leaving. Maybe he can move on."

Scully stands then, and moves to Lauren, and I'm sure it's over. But then she blows me away. "That's not enough. You've been given the chance to tell him again. Take it. Tell him you love him, by showing him, by... helping us finish his unfinished business. Lauren, how will you ever be able to rest if he never can?"

Holy Shit.

Holy Fucking Shit.

"Okay."

Scully and Lauren nod at each other.

"I'm a mess. I'm um, going to wash up." Lauren leaves to find a bathroom.

I'm peeling myself off the ceiling. "What are you doing Scully? You don't believe."

"Mulder, there's no such thing as ghosts or psychokinesis. I'm sure there's an explanation. But I believe that she believes. And my priority is to get to her help us stop Dorland."

Terrif. Still, she was willing to play along. Not that I have to let her get away with that explanation. "Well we may have just sacrificed our best opportunity to observe spectral phenomena."

"I'm giving us a chance to solve a case that's tangible instead of chasing after shadows." She leaves the room too.

Shadows?

Is that what I'm chasing?

I think I can live with that.

* * *

Scully gets us all a change of clothes while I recruit the agents we'll need. Man in Black shows up when they tell me my agents are assembled. Not a word of apology.

But he doesn't take over either.

I guess it's a start.

* * *

When we load them into the cars, I'm almost sure Lauren is going to bolt. But she doesn't. "You ready?" I ask her, and she nods.

Just nods.

Scully is the drill seargeant. "All right, everyone. We have a warrant to search the premises for evidence of the sale of restricted manufactured parts. The evidence may be in the form of falsified export licences, parts manifests, communiques. It could be on computer disks or hard copy."

Man in Black also has something to say. "Once there, when in doubt, ask. We need this to be clean. This is the culmination of a year long investigation. If we don't come out of there today with _something_ proving a connection to the Isfahan, this guy could walk."

"Lets go," Scully adds.

Scully turns to Lauren. "Now, it will most likely be in Dorland's office. We'll conduct the search, but we need you to guide us so we need you to be strong, okay?"

Scully's good at this part, I note.

We load into the cars and pull out for HTG.

* * *

Busting in is equally fun. Scully pulls out her badge and rounds everyone up. "Everybody stay calm. Federal Bureau of Investigation. Ma'am, could you step away from those files, please?"

She and Lauren go into Dorland's office, and I wait outside. And wait. While I'm waiting I fill fifteen boxes full of export paperwork, but there's nothing here.

Nothing incriminating.

Scully comes out of Dorland's office at one point and looks at me. The tiniest shake of her head tells me all I need to know.

Tan Suit (who is wearing purple today) and Man in Black come out with boxes too, but Dorland is standing there with the employees, calming everyone down.

"This is all we could find," says Tan Suit.

It's not enough. "We don't have him. He's not even breaking a sweat."

"Our case is blown. A wasted year. This guy is going to walk." They leave.

Blevins is gonna kill me.

So I go into Dorland's office. Is putting fabric on the walls the new thing now? I wouldn't know. My walls are are solid sheetrock.

"Let's get out of here," says Scully as she leaves with her own box.

Lauren is about to cry. "Lauren, it's over. We have to go. What we're looking for isn't here." She smashes a picture in it's frame, and I'm tempted to join her. Unfortuneately, Dorland joins us right then too.

"Look! She isn't an agent. I don't want to be uncooperative or combative, but she has no right destroying my personal property."

Lauren pulls a painting off the wall. "Lauren-" I begin.

"Destroying property? What about that van that blew up and killed those servicemen?"

"Oh, I don't know what you're talking about you stupid bitch!" She rushes at him with a letter opener. Great.

"Lauren, No!" I go to stop her -

But Howard beats me to it.

"He'll kill him. Help us find it!" Lights begin exploding and a tornado moves in. I can hear Scully yelling outside, papers fly through the air, and Lauren's letter opener flies directly into a fabric covered wall. It slides downward, revealing a computer disc.

Buried in the wall.

Nice.

"My God."

Scully has a talent for understatement.

I walk to the wall and pull out the disc.

"I guess what we're looking for _is _here," I tell her, and I hope she understands that what I just saw had to be a ghost.

Had to.

* * *

Lauren leaves town the next day. We stop by to see her and she's loading up the car at ten o'clock at night. Scully doesn't even bother to try to talk her out of it.

"The US Attorney's office is going after Dorland with everything they've got. Including the murder of Howard Graves," she tells Laurent instead, which is what we came to tell her anyway.

"I'll come back to testify."

I get that.

"Where are you going?" I ask her as I help her get the box in the trunk.

"Away from here." Must be the last box, because she gets in and starts the car. "Thanks."

So much she could tell us. "Boy, she's in a rush to get out of here."

"Out of here, or away from the ghost of Howard Graves?" We walk to the car.

Why is it so hard to believe? There's something I've always wondered about her. "Hey, Scully. Do you believe in the afterlife?"

"I'd settle for a life in this one."

I guess it doesn't matter that she flirts with fifty year old photo lab techs and manipulates young women. She, like me, is just trying to get her life back.

However she can.

"Have you ever seen the liberty bell?"

"Yes." We get in the car and buckle up.

"You know, I've been to Philadelphia a 100 times and I've never seen it."

"You're not missing much. It's just a big bell with a big crack, and you have to wait in a long line."

She wants a life. So do I. Maybe we can have a little piece of one.

"Yeah," I pull the car into the street, "but I'd really like to go."

"Why now?"

What am I supposed to say? It would take too long to articulate. Too many feelings. Too much that would have to be left unsaid.

And I don't know where to start.

"I don't know. How late do you think they stay open?"


	7. Ghost in the Machine

This story does not belong to me. Nor would I want it to because I don't actually like it that much.

A/N: Jason the Lunch Cart man is a shout-out to Jason the Coffee Guy at the mall where I work.

I've been thinking about Jerry lately.

I'm not quite sure why that is, but I have. Maybe it's because I feel guilty in some way, even though I shouldn't. Maybe it's the general signs of global collapse of sanity I see happening around me on a daily basis, from the guy outside my building beating up his ex-wife's car to the Church of Scientology being granted tax exemption. Maybe it's that episode of _Boy Meets World_ I accidentally taped, which Jerry would just despise (and rightly so) that made me start thinking about all the good times at VCU. Which wasn't very often. For obvious reasons.

Or maybe it's the details of what he managed to screw up that Doreen at the requisition desk finally told me: that Jerry somehow managed to send a key piece of evidence to the cleaners and it all ended up with a Federal judge losing body parts.

Somehow the rumor mill would have this be my fault, but that's just Jerry. He loses things. Still, I think there has to be some way to try to help him out – and I have no clue what that is. I mean, I don't even know who I should be making him look good _to._

So instead I focus on getting the thing in Philadelphia all wrapped up. There isn't going to be a trial because Dorland folded like the wimp he is and is instead giving them the Istfahan, which is really a better deal anyway, so Lauren Kyte is free to live her life without ever hearing from us again.

The lunch cart comes through the bullpen at 1:30 or so every day, and when we don't have other plans, we often run upstairs and grab lunch together. Scully gets a salad and I get roast beef and sometimes we don't talk about work. Those are my favorite days – when we just sit at a table and don't talk about work. It doesn't happen often.

Today – that tragic day after the very last episode of _Major League Baseball on CBS _- promises to be one of those days, I think, because we don't have anything really going on. Personally, I think the cancellation of the High Resolution Microwave thingy screams "Conspiracy!" but I don't really know what to do other than call Senator Matheson and see if he knows who started that business. He hasn't gotten back to me yet.

We duck upstairs and swipe a candy from the pumpkin, and then we find the lunch cart (just look for the crowd of suits) and make our selections, and that's when I hear him:

"Mulder."

I don't believe it. "Jerry?"

I haven't seen him in more than a year. This can't be coincidence.

"You're Dana Scully, right?" He shakes her hand. Wow, I guess word does get around. "Jerry Lamana."

I try to recover my shock. "Jerry and I worked together in Violent Crimes," I explain.

"Worked together? What are you talking worked together." He turns back to Scully. "We were partners."

It's a little weird, like if Phoebe and Diana had met while I was still with Diana. Which is also a weird analogy but there it is.

"That's $8.50, please," says Jason, the lunch cart man, and it's Scully's turn so she gets out her wallet.

Try to keep it all together. "So, Jerry, what are you doing here?"

"Looking for you. And I'm buying you two lunch."

Scully tries to protest. "No, really ..."

"No, it's on me." He pays the guy, and we begin to walk away. "I need your help on a case."

I hate when VCU ruins lunch. That's the worst part of that whole department. The very worst. "What's the case?" I ask, knowing what's coming. Sharp knives or guns or gruesome death. Victims and suspects. I remember this world.

I don't miss it or what it can do to me if I'm not careful.

"Can we go back to your office?" asks Jerry. "I'll give you the rundown."

He's always sucked at that bit.

We walk back down the stairs in silence and take him into the office. He's seen the poster – I had it in VCU – and he knows I believe in aliens, so he doesn't even bat an eye when he sees the walls. It's still kind of surreal to see him standing there.

Scully offers him a chair, which he declines, and she sit down while he stands there looking like a schoolboy about to give a report on goldfish. It's a murder, of course. The case is always a murder in VCU. No happy endings – not one. "What kind of case is it, Jerry?" I ask him, because I know how this all plays out – and he knows I know.

"Cause of death was electrocution."

"And it wasn't accidental?" asks Scully.

Electrocution is a fairly unusual cause of death in murder cases. My interest is definitely piqued. Dammit.

"It looks like some kind of elaborate booby trap," and I can't help but twitch as I remember the Sanders case, "but we don't know a whole lot more. The building engineer just found him twelve hours ago."

"Who's running the investigation?" she asks.

"Do either of you know Nancy Spiller?"

I can hear the smile in Scully's voice. "The forensics instructor at the Academy?" She glances back at me. "We used to call her the Iron Maiden."

"On a good day." I know what's coming. I can hear it already. "Well, anyway she's putting together the squad and, well, I took the liberty of mentioning your name."

I wonder if this is how Scully felt when Tom Colton came calling. I don't want to do this. Not anymore.

"Look, Jerry," I walk to

* * *

ward him, hoping he'll get it and see the desperation. "I'd like to help you out, but we're not on general assignment." Ain't that the truth.

"Because of the X-Files?" And now I feel bad. Great. And now he comes closer and I can feel the waves of desperation and if I don't do this I'll feel guilty. And be guilty. "Look, the truth is, I could use a little help on this. I don't want to drop the ball on this one."

"You won't drop the ball."

"Drake wasn't just a CEO of a Fortune 500 company. He was a good friend of the Attorney General's. Another feather in my cap would be really nice right now, because the one I got's looking a little mangy."

Jerry. No, don't do this. "Yeah, but Jerry ..."

"Look, I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important," he presses. "Just come down to the crime scene and take a look, okay?"

I want to say no. I really do.

"Okay."

* * *

  
He gives us an address in downtown DC, a skyscraper called "Eurisko World Headquarters". Some software company I've never really heard of, and tells us he'll meet us there. We get in the car and drive downtown in silence, Scully navigating occasionally, and then park in the parking lot outside the building.

It's not until we are walking inside that she asks, "How come you two went your separate ways?"

I knew she was thinking about it. "I'm a pain in the ass to work with." Which she must have noticed.

"Seriously."

"I'm not a pain in the ass?"

She rolls her eyes and thinks she's being blown off. But she deserves an answer. "We had different career goals. Jerry wanted the fifth floor." We climb a flight of stairs to the main entrance.

"And you?"

There's more to that question. What do I want from life? No idea. I used to think a typical life. FBI career, marry whatever lunatic will have me, kids, play ball at the park on Sundays.

But that never happened.

"I was gunning for a basement office with no heat or windows."

We walk into the building.

"I know where you ended up. What about Jerry?"

Stupid guilt. If he and I were still partners this would never have happened. "He ran into a little bad luck in Atlanta working hate crimes."

"What kind of bad luck?"

"He misplaced a piece of evidence, bagged and everything. Sent it to the cleaners." We pause at the elevator doors. "By the time he got it back, a federal judge had lost both his hands and his right eye."

The elevator dings and opens. We did not push a button. Cool. Inside, though, you do have to push a button. "Twenty-nine?" Scully asks as she does so.

That's what the man said. "Uh-huh."

"Going up," announces the elevator. What's next, a talking trash can?

"Must be for the visually impaired," mutters Scully.

Huh. "How do you like that? A politically correct elevator."

"Third floor....Fourth floor...." this could get annoying. Suddenly it stops. The whole thing stops. As in the elevator. Scully actually falls over, it stops so fast, and I have to pull her off the ground. "You okay?"

"Yeah. What was that?"

None of the buttons do anything but beep. Scully picks up the emergency phone. "Hello? This is Agent Dana Scully." Then there's a jolt and it starts moving again. "Uh, actually, I think everything's okay." She hangs up, and we lean against the rails again. She looks a little confused.

"You okay?" I ask her.

She nods. "Fine." The elevator continues counting until it reaches twenty-nine without incident and we exit into a crime scene.

There is nothing like a good crime scene, although I don't think I could confide that to anyone. Something about the way everything is frozen, like a photograph – probably why I liked my photography class. Something about this one frozen moment in time, that you can explore at your leisure. It just brings our my inner voyeur, I guess.

Jerry is standing in the office with the yellow tape on the door, flipping through a file, but he looks up when we enter. "Hi. Did you find it okay?"

"Yes, thanks," says Scully, the polite one.

I don't see how someone would be electrocuted in here, or for that matter, where the murder took place, but before I can ask, he continues, "Well, I'll show you the crime scene," and points to a door across the room, which leads into a bathroom.

A very nice bathroom.

The words "executive bathroom" could be applied, which makes me regret every nasty-ass roadside diner and rest area I've been to in my entire life.

He gestures to what looks like a computer panel in the wall. With a lock in it. Is the whole building run by computers? "Someone has tampered with the servo. They switched the ground to the negative so that when he put the key in the lock..."

"...he completed the circuit," says my resident physicist, as she tries to remove the key.

"It's fused. It takes a lot of juice to melt a steel key."

"And to throw a 180 pound man ten feet," adds Scully, glancing at the cracked mirror across the room.

Okay, try not to sound like an idiot, Fox. I hate machines. And computers, and, most days, electricity. "The, uh, servo switch. Could it have been moved manually?" The thing that is set to negative. Inside the open panel.

"We didn't find any prints in the surrounding area," replies Jerry. I glance at Scully and notice the phone is off the hook. Huh.

A black man in a tan suit walks in. "Sure it could have been switched manually. But whoever did it would have had to override the COS."

I don't think I want to know what that is. "What's the COS?" And is it anything like DOS?

"The central operating system." So that would be a yes, then. "It runs the building. It regulates everything from energy output to the volume of water in each toilet flush."

"This is Claude Peterson," Jerry tells us. "He's the building systems engineer. He discovered the body."

"If somebody wanted to override the COS, what would they ...?" I begin gesturing, hoping I won't make a fool of my not exactly tech-saavy self.

"Well, first he'd have to break the access codes which, well let's just say it wouldn't be easy."

Okay, well, first thing's first. "Well, we're going to need a list of all the people with that kind of know how."

"Well, I can tell you right now it'll be a pretty short list."

Eliminate the suspects, Mulder. "Would you be on it?" I hate that question.

"Me? Hey, look. I'm just a glorified building super. All I do is monitor the system. Make sure it's functioning properly. Like when I saw the overload in Mr. Drake's office."

Okay, so he can read a screen, not tell it what to say. Check.

"What about the phone lines? Does the COS monitor all phone calls?"

"Yes it does. Why?"

Huh. "I was just wondering."

"Okay, um, look. Can I go now?" he asks. I don't blame him.

"Yeah," says Jerry, and Peterson ducks away before he can develop nightmares – which he probably already has. People who discover bodies don't always fare well.

"Why'd you ask him about the phones?"

God, how many hours has he had this crime scene? Some people don't see what's right in front of them. "Phone's off the hook." I poke it back onto it's cradle. "Maybe Drake was talking to someone right before he did his Ben Franklin impersonation." Not my best reference. Oh well.

Jerry turns to Scully. "Taught him everything he knows."

This is just a surreal experience, working with the two of them, and it's gonna make me nuts. "You want me to do the profile?" I ask Jerry, even though he has a perfectly good degree of his very own.

"That'd be great, thanks."

I hate murder cases right now. Or maybe I hate being manipulated. And this killer's a fucking genuis. One that doesn't like to get his hands dirty and loves playing games and setting traps and all that kind of bullshit.

At the end of the day, no matter how pissed I am, I'm still a profiler. But maybe this is all Jerry needs – a working profile. If I recall, he doesn't suck at the investigating, and I bet he knows to do is dry cleaning _after_ now. So if I just type the thing up and let him go, I'll be free on this one.

I hope.

"Can I borrow the crime scene photos?" I ask him, and he hands me a folder full of copies. "Okay, I'll look around here some more and then type up a profile for the task force meeting. When is it?"

"Tomorrow at three," he tells me. "They figure it'll take him a while to set another trap if this is a pattern."

Oh, and pattern killers. Hate them too. This is a great week.

I can feel the cloud descending on my mind already, and I have to fight it off, because I'm just not going to get that involved in this. I can't afford to.

I won't.

"I'll see you then," I tell Jerry, and I leave the room with Scully following behind me, probably wondering what the hell I'm doing, but she doesn't ask. I sit in silence in the car on the way back to the office, trying to get my impressions into words, trying to put those words into professionalese, wishing I couldn't do any of it.

Working with Jerry made the cloud descend more easily, that's for sure. That's why we were partners – he could help me get to that state, where I start to lose myself. And then he could bring me back when it was over. Very important.

It's the transition that nearly killed me, before I found something where I didn't need that cloud of not-me that floods me or surrounds me or whatever it does when I lose myself. I was relieved, at first.

And then I realized the X-Files would bring me it's own set of problems.

Scully pulls into the parking garage and I mutter some kind of thanks before I run back to the office and hope she wasn't offended.

I stay there all night, trying to get into his head without getting too involved, but there's nothing more I can do. Besides, game-playing sociopaths are pretty rare, so it's not a generic profile. Scully comes in at eight, when I've been to the car for my travel bag and shaved already so I look somewhat presentable and she has no idea I didn't go home again.

We do our usual thing. She reads the profile and says it makes sense to her, which isn't a shock (after all, I _am_ good at this) and then goes to examine the body (already autopsied but still) before the meeting at three. I run upstairs for lunch, since I skipped dinner and breakfast, and then try to go through my books looking for examples of that same kind of game-playing thing this guy's doing.

Not much to work with, really. Psychology books can be hard to research, but I manage to come up with one point – just a little one – familiarity with not just computers, but that he used the COS specifically. It has a personal connection to the killer – that specific computer.

But I can't find my notes.

I mean can't find.

And I take my desk apart.

I glance at the clock. 2:55. Shit.

I'm still tearing it apart when there's a knock at the door. "Come in."

"It's past three." Scully. Why is she knocking? Sometimes women are just weird.

"I'm just looking for my profile notes."

"Maybe if you cleaned your desk more than once a year." She sounds like she's gonna laugh.

"They were right here. I'm telling you," I know it. She's leaning on the file cabinet, smirking, but I know it.

"Come on. We're late."

They aren't here.

They aren't here.

I'll do it from memory.

She hands me my jacket as I walk toward the door. "Mulder," she says as I push the elevator button, "You'd forget your head if it wasn't screwed on."

Not me, Jerry.

Jerry.

I have a very sinking feeling.

He wouldn't.

He would.

Never. Not without asking.

He wouldn't ask.

Not Jerry.

He'd think that if he asked I might say no.

But I wouldn't. Right now I wish I would.

Deep breath. Innocent until proven guilty. Which should take about another thirty seconds as the elevator lets us off on the fourth floor and we walk to the conference room. Jerry is talking as we sit down, and I know.

"I wrote a profile," he is telling the Iron Maiden, "that I think applies to this case." She nods and gestures for him to continue.

I find myself staring at the wall.

"Now, there are a couple of elements for us to consider, here."

Jerry was my friend.

Now what is he?

"Both the statistical rarity of homicidal electrocution and the complexity of the crime indicate a certain devious premeditation.

My words.

"After all, there are much simpler ways of killing someone. All of which leads me to believe that our guy was some kind of sociopathic game player - - maybe even a recluse since he designed a trap not only to avoid detection, but to avoid contact with the victim."

He's not even trying to hide it.

"Is that your profile?" Scully whispers.

And now I know what the hell I'm gonna do. I'm gonna give him this one. _Just_ this one.

"Forget it, huh?"

"Drake's final phone call supports this theory."

Now I'm pissed.

"At the tone, Eastern Standard Time will be 7:35 P.M."

He didn't tell me.

"Drake's estimated time of death."

I put him onto it and he didn't tell me.

"Why would Drake call for the correct time just before he died?" asks Spiller.

"It was an incoming call. From somewhere in the Eurisko building itself. Whoever set the trap wanted to make sure that Drake took the bait."

That was my idea. Mine! It would have worked in the profile. It could have helped.

"Excellent work, Agent Lamana."

I'm gonna kill him. Now not only did he steal my work, he sabotaged my profile. Without meaning to, but still.

"Thank you."

I'm gonna kill him.

"We will continue, based on this profile. Dismissed."

In the rush to get out of the room, Jerry is closer to the door, and I lose him, but I know where he'll be. Downstairs. He'll come to see me, to make amends. Easier to ask forgiveness than permission and all that.

I power walk the stairs and catch him the the bullpen at the water cooler.

My terms, not his.

"Jerry, what the hell are you doing?"

"Hey, don't get all bent out of shape."

_Bent out of shape?_ Bent. Out of. Shape. I let the words roll around my head for a second.

"Jerry, that was my profile." What the _hell_ is wrong with him?

"Look, I didn't think you'd mind." I wouldn't have. He starts to leave and I grab his jacket, which is , very technically, assaulting a fellow officer. I can't see my friend in there at all today. He's gone, vanished, I think. "Anyway, they were just notes. I filled in the blanks."

God dammit. "Jerry, you went into my office and you stole my work."

"Look, you're on this case 'cause I asked you to help me out, and you helped me out. What is the big deal?" He walks away.

I know what he's doing. He's deluding himself, that's what he's doing. It makes this easier to swallow. It shouldn't but it does.

Scully walks right by him on his way out, and comes straight to me. "What did he say?"

"He apologized - in his own way." The only way he can right now.

"I just got off the phone with Peterson, the systems engineer." She hands me a slip of paper. Right, my list of suspects. With one person on it.

"_One_ name? Brad Wilczek?"

"He said it would be a short list. And it's headline news how much this guy despised Drake." She hands me some other paper that I don't even bother to read.

Come on! "That just seems too obvious. To kill Drake would be so brazenly egomaniacal." We'll need a car. And his address. I start walking.

"And fully consistent with Jerry's excellent behavioral profile."

God dammit. "Fully."

* * *

  
I get the car from Doreen and we drive out to the country to the address Scully pulled up on that second piece of paper I never read. She's quiet, content to let me stew, which is _fine_ with me.

On one hand I want to help Jerry, because he's a decent guy and he needs it. On the other, stealing my profile is not exactly decent-guy behavior. On a third hand, I did basically throw him to the wolves – all "taught him everything he knows" comments aside, Jerry really needs someone to watch out for him, keep him from losing stuff and whatnot. And I did sort of leave the department to go chase little green men. Okay, there was more to it than that.

I met Diana about six months before, and she was the one who heard of the X-files first. She heard a rumor that there were case files similar to my sister's – unexplained and unsolved – languishing in a basement storage room somewhere.

It took six months for us to track them down. No one seemed to know quite where they were, or have a key to the door. But once we got it open – treasure trove.

It had obviously been an office at some point. The desk was still sitting there, and there was an empty nameplate on the door. If I had to guess, I would say it had been building operations or maintenance – there's a lot of circuit breaker panels in the back of the office, next to Scully's area.

I was officially VCU, but I couldn't tear myself away from these cases. Some had similar elements to Samantha's abduction. Some were just weird. Some were obviously crackpots. The more I read, the more I wanted to learn, so I could sort out the crackpots from the non-crackpots. And I began reading.

And reading.

I kept reading until one day I realized I wanted to investigate one of these cases. So I opened a travel request and it got approved.

But I forgot to put Jerry's name on it. He wasn't really that into all this stuff anyway. I flew to Indiana without him, looking for instances of telekinesis on the Purdue campus. I found a professor who had drugged a drinking fountain with an unknown compound, but the effect faded within days.

When I got back, Jerry had taken a transfer to Atlanta and I was still on my special project. So I packed my stuff down to the storage room that might be an office and hung up my poster and that was that.

So why do I feel so guilty now?

Scully pulls down a country lane next to a golf course and one of those zigzag fences while I scan the page on Brad Wilczek. Guy went to MIT, software engineer with a 220 IQ. Basically don't get him mad, 'cause he can hack you. She pulls into his driveway, next to the white convertible, behind the motorcycle, and waaay behind the little red British thing, and we walk up the very expensive looking driveway to the front door.

Nice house. "So this is what a 220 IQ and a $400 million severance settlement buys you." A security camera tracks us as we walk to the front door, and Scully knocks.

He, the man himself, opens the door right away. "Yes?"

It's good to know that a computer nerd is still a computer nerd no matter how rich he gets. I pull out my ID, and Scully says, "Brad Wilczek? We're with the FBI."

She sounds surprised, but I bet he saw us coming a mile off.

"What took you guys so long?" He steps back to let us in. "Oh, do you mind taking off your shoes?" So we do. "You're here about Ben Drake," he tells us. It's not a question at all, but I answer anyway. "What can you tell us?"

He leads us further into the house. "You can divide the computer science industry into two types of people - - neat and scruffy."

"I take it Benjamin Drake fit into the first category," Scully observes as we walk into what I can only describe as a room with a tree in it.

"Neat people like things neat. They wear nicely pressed suits and work on surface phenomena. Things they can understand. Market shares, and third quarter profits."

He leads us to a computer desk. Next to the tree. "And you had a different vision for the company?"

"I started Eurisko out of my parents' garage. I was 22 years old. I'd just spent a year following around the Grateful Dead. You know what Eurisko means?"

I take a second. College was ages ago. "That's from the Greek, isn't it? Um, 'I learn things.'" He leads us past a glass partition into a – I really want to say meditation room, and down a hallway, but he pauses when I actually know something.

"Not exactly. It means 'I discover things.'" Hmph. Close enough for government work. "Unfortunately, Ben Drake wasn't _interested_ in discovery." He starts walking again. "He was a short-sighted, power-hungry opportunist." He walks into another room and stands in front of a screen, gesturing to the two chairs in front of it that we sit down in. "Let me show you something - Smart Home." he clicks a remote and a screen lights up with three little dots flashing – I'm thinking the dots are us. "From this prototype, I have access to every square foot of my house. This place is as safe as Fort Knox and as energy efficient as your average igloo. We were two years ahead of Microsoft and Cebus when Drake, in his _infinite wisdom_, killed the program."

Huh. Pretty advanced. Really advanced. I stand up to get a closer look. "Mr. Wilczek, is this system related to the one in your corporate building?"

"Variation on a theme."

"In your opinion, how many people know the system well enough to override it?"

"Finally the bonus question." I thought he'd know that was coming. "Not many is the answer."

"Could someone have hacked into the system?" The Gunmen, for example.

"Well, not your average phone freak, that's for sure. But there's plenty of kooks out there. Data travelers, Electro wizards, techno anarchists. Anything's possible."

"Could you have done it?" asks Scully. But we know that answer.

"Of course. I designed the system. That's why you guys are here, isn't it? I'm your logical suspect."

"You don't seem too worried," she says, but why would he be? He's too smart to get caught.

"It's a puzzle, Miss Scully, and scruffy minds like me like puzzles. We enjoy walking down unpredictable avenues of thought, turning new corners - - but as a general rule, scruffy minds don't commit murder."

She looks at me and I look back. Whatever she sees there makes her take the lead. "Thank you for you time, Mr. Wilczek. We'll contact you if we have any further questions.

He walks us back to the door a different way and we put our shoes back on in silence.

The Iron Maiden calls us into her office the next morning. "How's the case?" she asks with no preamble.

Scully jumps right in. "We have a suspect but no proof," she says, which is true if a little misleading.

"Well," asks the Iron Maiden, "what would you need to tie him to the murder?" Like she's teaching a class.

"We have a motive," I tell her, "means – computer programming – and opportunity. But we don't know that he's the only suspect"- although all I have on that is his word - "and we don't have any way to connect him to the crime."

"I just got a report," she tells us, "that the voice on the phone may not have been a recording, but an actual person speaking. If that was the case, that would be your killer."

Makes sense. Scully speaks up. "The FBI has several of his taped lectures on file." God only nows why. "We could use the voice analysis software to break down the words in the message, try to find them on a tape, and see if we can get a match."

She's good at this stuff.

The Iron Maiden nods. "I look forward to your results."

I guess that's a dismissal, so we leave, stopping by the requisition office on the way to get the equipment we'll need and to request all of Brad's lectures on tape. They arrive an hour later, after we've plugged cord C into slot F and tested the system a few times on our new/old computer. Scully mans the tape players while I listen for words from the tape the COS made of Drake's last call.

We're in the middle of Brad giving a lecture at the Smithsonian when the door squeaks and we look up to see Jerry himself. The last person I want to deal with right now.

"Will you give me a second?" I ask her, and she nods, so I step into the hallway with him."Look," he says before I cans say anything, "I'm here with my hat in my hand. I screwed up - - I'm sorry." Dammit, Jerry, I can't stay mad. "What more can I say?"

The worst part was having to be upset. "All you had to do was ask. I would've helped you with the profile."

"You don't know what it's like, Mulder."

I guarantee I do, on some level. "What _what's_ like?"

"You heard about Atlanta?"

Oh, Jerry, everyone heard about Atlanta. "Yeah."

"They got me on six month's probation. I got to file daily reports like some cherry new agent."

"That was bad luck. That could have happened to anybody." I know that's not true.

"Not to you."

I let that hang there, trying to figure out what to say. "Don't run yourself down, Jerry. You're a good agent. We did some good work together."

"Let's face it. I was tagging along."

"That's not how it was." That is how it was.

"How would you know, Mulder? You were too busy dazzling them up there on the high wire."

What do I say? "Mulder," Scully saves me, "take a look." We both go back in. "We borrowed this from the voice biometrics lab at Georgetown." I love how she knows the history of every piece of equipment the FBI has. "It's a computer spectrogram capable of identifying individual speech patterns," she exposits for Jerry. "Now this is the recording the Central Operating System made of the phone call Drake received just before he died."

"At the tone, Eastern Standard Time will be 7:35 p.m," says the computer.

"And this we spliced together from a series of lectures Brad Wilczek gave at the Smithsonian last year." She works better without me, even though we were almost done.

"At the tone, Eastern Standard Time will be 7:35 p.m."

"Now we'll stack them."

"At the tone, Eastern Standard Time will be 7:35 p.m."

"You're saying this is the same person?"

"I'm saying that both voices are Brad Wilczek's. He may have disguised his voice electronically, but he couldn't alter the form that is unique to his own speech patterns," I find myself saying. He's too smart for this, Brad is. Something's wrong.

"Which means that he was the one that killed Drake. He had the motive and the means. And now we have the physical evidence." She circles the bits on the screen that tell you it's a match with a marker that I really hope is dry erase. "Judge Benson lives in Washington Heights. I can get a warrant in less than an hour."

"Someone has to make sure Wilczek stays put," says Jerry.

"I'll go with you-" I begin, but -

"No. Let me bring him in alone. I need this one, Mulder."

He'll be fine. It's just one nerd. "All right." I think, as he walks out the door, that there was something in that look he gave me that was significant, but I can't quite figure out what. Scully is dialing her favorite judge, and I'm trying really hard to be glad we solved this thing.

It's forty-five minutes later that they get the warrant and I try to call Jerry, but there's no answer. We don't know where Wilczek is, exactly, so Scully and I drive to his house – but he isn't home.

A sinking sensation begins to work it's way up my spine. It's a weird feeling.

Something's wrong.

Scully's phone rings, and she answers. "Scully. Yes. Yes. Yes he is – yes. We'll be there." She looks up at me. "That was Spiller. She wants to see us. Specifically you, actually."

What did I do now? Nothing.

Something's not right.

We get in the car and drive back to work, and I don't think it can be what I think it is. Not Jerry. Nothing wrong with Jerry. But then why isn't he answering his phone?

He's fine, though, I tell myself as I run upstairs. He'll be fine, I repeat, as Scully gets pulled aside by the forensics office with a shouted "I'll meet you later!" as she's shown something in a folder. He'll be okay.

He has to be.

I open the door to Spiller's outer office and knock on her inner door without asking the secretary. She answers with a stern "Come in!" that tells me something is very wrong.

Jerry's been hurt. But he'll be okay.

He'll be okay.

"Agent Mulder, take a seat please," she says, and I obediently sit down.

"Agent Jerry Lamana was found dead at the Eurisko building today. He was in an elevator, it malfunctioned, and he was killed when it crashed."

The world fills with white noise for a second, and when it returns to normal, Spiller is saying "-notified his next of kin. However, if there is anything of a personal note you would care to add, we can forward a letter from you to them."

Oddly enough, the thing that comes to mind is one day, way back when, after a day when there were no serial murders and we decided to go out for a beer. Just hanging out and chatting about baseball and basketball and things that normal people talk about – landlords and neighbors and the cute girl in the supermarket.

Jerry was the last person with whom I got to be normal, just for the briefest moment, for years.

"I would like to extend my sincerest condolences," continues Spiller. "I know you worked together well for a long time. The Bureau will investigate Agent Lamana's death as a homicide until we determine otherwise. Bradley Wilczek was arrested at the scene."

Wilczek. That's who he was following. The buzzing is back.

"-final analysis of the malfunction before we charge him with a crime," she is saying when I tune back in. There's more to this. It's not Wilczek.

He's too smart.

"All evidence will be made available to you," she adds. "The building security camera recorded the elevators. I have a copy of the tape if you'd care to see it."

I pick up the tape she slides across the desk numbly.

This doesn't make sense. Wilczek didn't do this.

He wouldn't go back unless there was something for him there. The killer kills from a distance. No, there's something bigger here.

Something I can't see.

"Thank you," I tell Nancy Spiller, and then I leave her office and go to the basement.

I hesitate a full minute before I play the tape, because knowing is better than not knowing.

Wilczek ran through the lobby, and then he was followed by Jerry. The feed switches to the elevator camera, where Jerry gets in the elevator. He pushes the button, and the elevator rises and then suddenly it gets stuck between twenty-nine and thirty. And then suddenly it shakes and it falls and he sprawls on the ground and then suddenly it's all black.

And Jerry is dead.

Just like that.

Wilczek is also on the feed at that point, stepping back from the COS terminal. Same time.

It's too obvious.

I back it up a few times. Too obvious.

"I heard about Jerry. I'm sorry."

Scully came in at some point.

"I don't think Wilczek did it," I tell her.

"What?"

I've always thought it was too neat. "It doesn't make sense. Why would he go back to Eurisko?"

"To destroy evidence. To cover his tracks."

He knows where the cameras are. "If you were going to destroy evidence, would you pose for the cameras?"

She turns off the screen.

"Mulder, you've been through a lot - - more than I think even you realize."

I know. I don't care. "I think Wilczek is smarter than this."

She takes a deep breath. "He just signed a confession. How much proof do you need?"

More.

So we drive back to Wilczek's house to take a look at how he did it. There are suits everywhere. "Excuse me sir, this is a crime scene. You're going to have to leave."

Do I look stupid? "Yeah, I know." I flash my badge. "I ordered the subpoena."

"That subpoena's been obviated."

Huh? "What are you talking about?"

"Unless you have a _code five _clearance, I'm gonna have to ask you to turn back."

Code five. That's DOD.

I need help, I realize. I can't do this without help.

* * *

  
So I drive over to the Lincoln Memorial and sit on a certain bench and try to think of how I might get that help. Only one person can give it to me – and I don't have a way to contact him. That's annoying. I'm only seen him at Casey's bar, and again at the track. Both times he was there to meet me.

But let's assume he knows Casey's. He must have scoped it out, at least. It's popular among the agents. I go there infrequently, but plenty of people go there more. Jerry liked it.

So I go to Casey's and flag down the barkeeper. "I was hoping you could help me," I tell her. "I'm looking for a man, I think he comes in here sometimes. Older man, gray hair, distinguished looking." I just described a fair portion of the FBI upper management. "Speaks with an accent, New England somewhere, and he probably always pays cash." Because he wouldn't be wanting to give away his identity to anyone.

She frowns. "I think I know who you mean."

Okay, it's a start. Now what?

"If you see him, will you give him this note?" I ask, as I scribble out, _NEED TO MEET, HOOVER COURTYARD, 10/28._

At least it's an attempt.

So I go to th courtyard, and I sit.

And I sit and I sit and I sit.

And I try to remember what it was about Jerry that drove me nuts, that I had to just cut him loose. But in the end, I know what it was.

He was too normal.

Jerry was one of those people who coudn't make that transition. He was just normal, all the time, and he could never immerse himself in work like I can.

I don't know what that says about me or him.

I just know I won't be writing that letter to his mother.

He arrives that afternoon, around 1pm. He walks by me and I rise and walk with him across the courtyard. "Thanks for coming."

"I'm here against my better judgement. In the future I must insist that you respect the terms of our arrangement."

Arrangement? Whatever. "I need to know why Brad Wilczek is the subject of a code five investigation. What the Defense Department wants with him."

"What do you think they'd want with the most innovative programmer in this hemisphere?"

Duh. "Software."

"For years, Wilczek has thumbed his nose at _any_ contract involving weapons applications. He's a bleeding heart."

Okay, what, exactly? This isn't answers. "What kind of software?"

He stops walking and faces me"How much do you know about artificial intelligence?"

Doesn't exist. "I thought it was only theoretical."

"It was, until two years ago. You remember Helsinki, the first time that a chess playing computer ever beat a Grand Master?" I heard about that. "That was Wilczek's program. And the rumor was that he did it by developing the first adaptive network."

Huh? "An adaptive network?"

"It's a learning machine. A computer that actually thinks. And it's, ah, become something of a holy grail for some of our more acquisitive colleagues in the Department of Defense."

I can see why. A computer on our side. Just turn it loose and tell it who to shoot and it would. Completely amoral – and thinks faster than any of us.

Didn't these people see _Terminator_? "Wilczek built one?" Please tell me he didn't -

"He's never publicized it, but that's the suspicion."

Drake was going to kill the project. The computer, acting in self-defense, killed him. It all makes sense. Too much sense.

I bet Wilczek doesn't even watch movies.

"Don't contact me through Casey's again, Mister Mulder. If you want to talk to me, tape an X on your window. That at least can be blamed on a paranoid fear of earthquakes."

He walks away.

The only thing to do is confront Wilczek. I'll have to get him to tell me what to do – and how to turn the blasted thing _off_.

He's going to have to destroy his own creation, which sounds harder than it will be. Wilczek can't be proud of what he's done. For some reason, he's protecting it, but I don't think he's proud of it. He's too moral.

I flash my credentials at the federal detention center and get escorted in and left in his cell. He's alone, and he won't even look at me for a good ten minutes.

Jerry's dead and it's all his fault.

Maybe not all.

I wonder how self-aware that computer is. I wonder if it understands the concept of fear for one's life, and that Jerry was afraid before he died. Maybe it can understand intellectually, but it can't really _know_.

Not yet. It will know.

Wilczek is looking at his feet, curled up on his bed.

"Are you going to talk to me?" I ask him.

"There's nothing to say. I'm guilty."

Yes you are, and at the same time not.

"You okay in here?"

"They make me wear shoes all the time. What else do you want from me?"

Time to lay my cards on the table – he's my only hope. "I want you to tell me why you're willing to spend the rest of your life in prison for a crime you didn't commit."

"What are you talking about? I'm guilty."

Nope. Not really. Not in court. "I _know_ you're innocent!" I move over to his bed and sit down next to him. "You're protecting a machine -- the Central Operating System at Eurisko."

"If I'm protecting anything, it's not the machine."

Okay, fine. The one thing I couldn't figure out. "Then what?"

He is silent for a moment, and then -"After the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki - - Robert Oppenheimer spent the rest of his life regretting he'd ever glimpsed an atom."

Ah.

"Oppenheimer may have regretted his actions but he never denied responsibility for them."

But I do understand. Oppenheimer knew that he had killed those people – not by some act he had undertaken but by what he allowed to be done to the science he was working on. Something he didn't even realize, really, could happen.

Until it was too late.

"He loved the work, Mr. Mulder. His mistake was in sharing it with an immoral government. I won't make the same mistake."

I get it.

But Jerry deserves better."But your machine killed Drake. And it killed my friend."

"I'm sorry about what happened. But there's nothing I can do."

Oh come on! I'm on my feet, now, and I'm yelling. "And you talk about morality. You're afraid of the government but you're willing to accept the risk that your machine will kill again."

"The lesser of two evils."

Okay, new game then. "What about a third option. You created that machine. Now you tell me how to destroy it."

He pauses again, and I am left to wait. And hope.

"Okay."

Thank you.

"I can make a virus to destroy the system if you can promise to deliver it."

All I ask.

So I return to work and find Scully in the office, reading what I think might be Jerry's autopsy report. I should really look, since I'm investigating his murder, but I can't.

So instead I drop the bomb. "I think I found the real killer," I tell her, and wait until she's giving me that look she's so good at. "I think it was the computer."

She stands up to give me what for, but I won't let her. I start heading down the hall and she follows. "Brad Wilczek is trying to keep anyone from using the technology for warfare – that's why he confessed. So no one will figure out that the computer's alive." The elevator arrives and I get in, forcing her to follow if she wants a shot at me.

"Mulder..."

I press the first-floor button. "Scully, think about it. Drake was going to terminate the program. Serial killers will often find ways to display their power to those they need to intimidate. It all fits."

The elevator doors open and we walk into the lobby.

"Mulder, I don't think..."

Not done. "We have to kill the computer, Scully, it's the only way to keep the D.O.D. From getting their hands on it – the only way to stop the killings."

We walk out the doors and into the courtyard, but Scully refrains from commenting.

"Wilczek can create a virus that will destroy the system," I tell her.

"Mulder, don't you see, blaming the machine is an alibi." Alibis aren't all inaccurate, you know. "And a bad one."

So it's a little on the original side. So what? That just means it's more likely to be true. "But it's the _only_ thing that makes sense. The COS project was posting big losses for Eurisko and Drake was about to terminate the program." Simple fact.

"So the machine killed Drake out of self-defense?"

Might even hold up in court. "Self-preservation. It's the primary instinct of all sentient beings."

"Mulder, that level of artificial intelligence is _decades_ away from being realized."

Not according to _Terminator_. "Then why was our government trying to usurp Wilczek's research?"

She pulls me off to the side of the courtyard we've been walking through then, and I know without having to ask that this as far as I can push her right now.

I'll be doing this alone.

It's okay.

"Mulder, I think you're looking for something that isn't there," she whispers, "and I think it has something to do with Jerry. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea if you talked to someone."

Probably not.

But I won't, because Jerry wouldn't have. Stupid? Maybe. But it's what I'm doing.

She has my best interests at heart, and I reach out and squeeze her arm, just a bit, before I walk away. "You're probably right." And I walk away and leave her there.

Dammit, I can't even get mad at her.

"Where are you going?" she calls after me.

Back to indulging my delusions, chasing implausible shadows. Away from here. "To talk to someone." And then I walk away and leave her there.

I drive home after that, and pick up my little-used laptop and then I drive back to the prison and check it in. As long as he's not on a network, Wilczeck is allowed computer access.

They escort me into his cell, and it's about ten feet before that I get cold feet. What am I doing? This is pretty paranormal. I should be preserving it for study.

Paranormal, but not natural. This isn't a ghost in the machine at all. It's a dangerous computer that could kill us before we could blink if it put it's mind to it, and I'm not just thinking of SkyNet.

Some things should never be built because we cannot control them. Brad Wilczek has learned that, and I am learning it too. If something you made could spin out of control, _don't make it_.

That's how you keep bad things from happening. Stay in control.

Says the guy who investigates alien abductions for a living.

Still, it's a good rule of thumb. For example, if I had stayed in control of the situation with Tooms, Scully wouldn't occasionally – so seldom that I almost don't notice – come into the office with bags under her eyes and move the trash can a little to the left so it covers the air vent.

Talk about needing to talk to someone.

This creation of Wilczek's? Totally out of control. Totally could kill us all. Therefore – well, I don't know how to arrest a computer, so I'll just have to kill it. Simple.

They open the cell and let me in, Wilczek scrambles to sit up.

"How much time do you need?" I ask him, opening the computer as I sit on his bed.

He swallows and looks up at me. "_This _is what I have to work with?"

I nod.

"Can't be done."

It's a computer, isn't it? "Why not?"

"I suppose technically I can, but..."

"You can't leave this cell," I tell him.

"You'll have to plug it in to an outlet. The battery won't last long."

Oh. And I was worried he'd want some kind of network access. "Okay." I go to get an extention cord and leave him to his typing.

Brad Wilczek types for five hours and twenty-three minutes before he's done. I spend that time reading the newspaper (boring) and doing the crossword (more boring). I'm looking for something else to do when he calls out, "Agent Mulder!" and I run back to his cell. "I'll need the portable drive I had when I came in and a standard floppy disk," he says.

I go back to the office and get his box of stuff and dig through it until I find a black rectangle that plugs into a computer and a box of floppies, then return to Brad and pass it into his cell through the bars and he plugs it into the computer and hits a button, then does the same with the disk. "All you have to do," he says, "is put the portable drive in the B port. COS will automatically read the drive – it's an automatic response, like a reflex. That will give you administrative control and automatically read the next thing you put in the floppy drive. So you put in the disk, and it'll read it, and that's it."

Simple as that?

"It might put up a fight. Doors and elevators are all monitored by the system. You should take the stairs. The main terminal is on the twenty-ninth floor – that's the only terminal that it can't disconnect from when it realizes it's being corrupted."

Simple. Walk to the twenty-ninth floor and try not to die. "Anything else?"

"Don't discuss what you're doing – you could take it by surprise. Oh, and if you go to my house and steal one of my liscense plates, it should think your car is allowed in."

Not likely. It killed the last FBI agent who so much as set foot in the door. "Thanks."

"Good luck," he tells me, passing the laptop through the bars. "You'll need it."

I procrastinate after stealing Brad's liscense plate by sitting in a diner and having a slice of apple pie and trying not to think about what I'm about to do – climb to the top of a building and kill the computer that is the holy grail of artificial intelligence.

Maybe it's not my holy grail, but it's someone's.

Whatever, I tell myself. It killed Jerry. Let it rot.

But I don't quite believe that.

I go back to the car, drive to Eurisko, and get out. That is a tall building.

Quit stalling, Mulder.

It's 2:30 in the morning. No better time. More than half the building is deserted. I walk around and look up again. Still tall.

I open my trunk to get my equipment when a car pulls up behind me.

But what gets out of the car is the last thing I expected.

"Mulder!"

It's Scully. "Scully! What are you doing here?"

"Someone or something's been scanning my computer files." She runs up to me and I can tell she's wearing her pajamas and a jacket. Cute pajamas. "Tapping my phones. I traced the line. It came from somewhere in there." She points to Eurisko.

Okay. Once again, that's a big building. "It's the machine."

She lets out a breath. "How can we get in?"

Well, we'll try Wilczek's plan. "You remember the Trojan Horse?" I pull out the liscense plate. Wish me luck, Wilczek.

She smiles at me and hops in the passenger side of my car. I screw the new plate in place at the front and we pull into the employee parking. At first, I'm kind of encouraged. It scans us for a minute and then a little green light that says "pass" comes on and the metal gate raises. "Open sesame," I say in my favorite creepy voice, trying not to think that this was too easy and the D.O.D really should stop trying to get their hands on such a dumb machine. Scully just glares at me. Turns out she was right when the way gets blocked and the gate starts coming down right on top of my – oh, my car.

Yeah, well, that was my car.

My insurance company's gonna hate me.

I grab my backpack with the disk and my screwdrivers and other fun things and we both crawl out the driver's side. The horn is blaring, so I open the hood and disconnect it.

Yeah, I think the stairs were a good idea. "So much for the element of surprise. What do you say we take the stairs?" I ask her, pretending that that was my idea." We cross the garage and walk into the basement, then up the stairs.

Scully is silent except for the clomping of the heels she is wearing with her pajamas. I'm not sure she owns anything else. We clomp up twenty-eight floors and I realize she has no idea where we're going. "Twenty-eight down, one to go."

Which is when the lights go out.

"Oh, great. Mulder?"

Where the hell is my flashlight? I begin searching the backpack. Ah, found it. That would have sucked if I'd forgotten it.

I turn it on and shine it at Scully. "Trick or treat." She sighs. The flashlight is shining on the wall though – number twenty-nine. I bet it can see us.

She reaches for the doorknob.

I should have brought gloves for just this purpose. "No!"

"What are you doing?"

Not dying. I pull out my giant gloves and a screwdriver – plastic handle. Nonconductive. "I don't want to make the same mistake Drake made." I touch the screwdriver to the lock and sparks fly everywhere. Scully jumps back and shrieks. Something starts beeping. Door's still locked, too.

It can see us. Security camera. And I said twenty-ninth floor – it must have some clue what that means. I point at the camera and Scully shines the flashlight there. But at least it knows that we know that it knows.

I pull the other glove out of the bag and put it over the camera. "What are you looking at?"

Okay, there's a vent there. I'm too big to fit in, but Scully's not. She can climb through and unlock the door. Simple. "Take off your shoes."

"Why?"

I point to the vent and she rolls her eyes. "Mulder..."

It's right then that I remember her nightmares, the ones that we don't talk about. Ever. But I don't have another plan, and we've got to get out of here. She sighs. "Fine." She kicks out her shoes and I boost her up into the vent.

"Unh...." she groans.

This always works in the movies. "There should be a way for you to drop down and open the door."

I can hear her banging around in the duct as she crawls toward the door. The banging gets fainter and then I can't hear anymore.

"Come on, Scully," I mutter.

I can hear the heater humming, and nothing else. God, this is dull. And then the door beeps. And buzzes.

"Scully?"

The door opens. But it's not Scully. It's Peterson. "Agent Mulder? What are you doing here?"

What am _I _doing here? "I'm here investigating the death of Agent Lamana (close enough) and I got locked in the stairwell. Agent Scully was supposed to be getting help." Or something.

"Do you think it has anything to do with the COS?"

Uh-oh. "Why do you ask?"

He gestures down the hall. "Let me show you something."

He guides me down the hall to the room I was trying to get to – the COS control room. Convenient. "The machine's been acting all crazy. Power surges, shut off. That's why I'm here so late."

Well, we'll put an end to that – but all the toilets might run over. "Where's the B port?"

"Oh, it's right back here." He directs me into another room, where I plug in the little gray rectangle. Simple.

Too simple.

"Look, are you sure you know what you're doing? Because if you don't, it's my job on the line."

The screen above the port reads Access Denied. "Damn."

I pull it out and plug it into the next slot over – the whole damn panel is labled "B Port". A green light blinks on, and the screen says "BEGIN ALGORITHM CODE PROGRAM", while a loud voice announces, "system access granted."

Sounds promising. I run back over to the keyboard. "User code level seven," the computer continues.

"Now I can put in the virus," I tell him, and I sit down and grab my backpack, but that's when I see Peterson has a gun.

Too simple.

"Not bad, Agent Mulder. You know, I've been trying to access the CPU for the past two years." D.O.D. Dammit. "Now please, take out your gun and remove the clip." Sigh. I do what he says. "Careful," he warns me. What am I gonna do?

"Defense Department?" I ask him, like it matters.

"Lets just say our paychecks are signed by the same person. Now give me the diskette and step away from the console."No. NO no no no no. Crap. "You don't want to test my resolve, Agent Mulder." He holds out his hand and wiggles his fingers. I give him the disc. Now what the hell am I gonna-

"Put down the gun."

Scully. Not having a good day. In fact she's so pissed off I slip out of my chair and back away. She is scary right now.

"Look, you may think you know what you're dealing with -"

"Shut up and drop the gun." Which he does, and the disk too. But he turns to her.

"You're making a mistake, Agent Scully. Compromising your sworn duty. This operation is more sensitive than you can possibly imagine."

The worst part? She might buy it. "Don't listen to him." I run around the table to grab the disk.

"The technology in this machine is of enormous scientific interest."

"The machine's a monster, Scully. It's already killed two people. They won't be able to handle it any better than Wilczek did," I tell her, and I pray that I'm right, and also that she'll see that if I am.

"Make no mistake ..._You_ will be held accountable."

There is silence. Utter silence. And then I know. "Mulder, put in the disk."

She's on my side.

So I put in the disk and the computer starts talking, and it sounds a _lot_ like HAL. "What are you doing, Brad? Don't do this, Brad." And then it's gibberish and gibberish on the screen. "Brad....Brad....Why?"

And then it's over.

And the lights come on.

Part of me is even sad for the damn thing. I take the clip out of Peterson's gun and hand it to him. "Tell your superiors it had to be done." And then I grab Scully's arm and we leave together.

I try to visit Brad the next day, but he's gone. Transferred to an unspecified facility by guys in camo. I start calling every detention and protective custody facility I can think of, I call Congress, I even make a dead end call to the Attorney General, and finally, five days later, someone agrees to meet me at the park across from my building.

Weird place to meet.

So I'm not surprised that it's Deep Throat, sitting on a bench. "Good day, Mister Mulder."

Good day to you too. I sit down next to him. "Where is Brad Wilczek?" I ask.

No answer.

"I checked with Congressman Klebanon and the Department of Corrections Subcommittee. I even petitioned the Attorney General's office." He knows all this.

"You won't find him."

"They can't just take a man like Brad Wilczek without an explanation."

"_They_ can do anything they want."

I suppose they can.

"Where is he?"

"In the middle of what we in the trade call "hard bargaining.""

Nothing will come of that. "Wilczek won't deal. He'll never work for them."

"Loss of freedom does funny things to a man, and remember, Wilczek confessed to two murders, and you effectively destroyed the only evidence that could have exonerated him."

That never occurred to me, but I'll bet it occurred to Brad. He knew what I was asking better than I did. "What else could I have done?"

"Nothing... Unless you were willing to let the technology survive."

It died, then. I killed it, at least. "The Department of Defense still hasn't found anything?"

"They've been on it for five days. Wilczek's virus was thorough. It left no trace of the artificial intelligence. The machine is dead."

I can only hope.

Scully goes to the funeral with me that afternoon, and we watch Jerry's casket lowered into the ground in silence. For all that Jerry was, I trusted him with my life – and he never let me down until the day he died, when I learned that there will be someone there to fill that void. I thought for the last few years that I didn't need that. That I could go it alone.

But I can't.

Someone has to watch my back. Someone I can trust, even if what I trust her to do isn't what I would do myself.


	8. Ice

Thanks for waiting. I hate this ep, but it had to be done, so here it is. I think it sucks less than the ep does, at least.

BTW, I don't own the X-Files.

* * *

It's not easy living my life sometimes. Some days I just want to sit on the couch and watch TV. Those are the days I think about having a peg leg. But I don't have a peg leg, which means that on that Monday morning after a night full of less-than-inspiring Sunday night television involving the newest Superman and an episode of SeaQuest, I go in to work bright-eyed and bushy tailed and ready for action.

What I find are two messages. One from Scully, saying she's going to be at Quantico covering someone's class at the last minute. And one from Blevins – sort of a "call me when you get this" type of thing.

Last time I went to Blevins' office, he sent me on a case that ended with Scully locked up with a poltergeist. I'm not eager to repeat that.

But I go, anyway, because that's what we do, right? So I walk into his outer office until the Secretary of the Week (the man has a harder time finding secretaries who can hack it than Murphy Brown) decides to let me in. So once more unto the breach, I go.

Blevins kind of blinks at me when I walk in the door. "Agent Mulder. Good." He gestures to the chair. "Sit down."

I've never seen him stand up. Maybe he's the one with a peg leg.

"We received report of a very disturbing video from the Arctic Ice Core Project. Here's the case file and a copy of the video. You and Agent Scully should be prepared to fly to Nome this afternoon."

Nome? Nome has an air service? Do I even own mittens? I take the file. "Thank you, sir." Jackass.

"You'll be met at Doolittle Airfield by several specialists on the project who will help you to determine the extent of the problem. From there, you'll fly to Icy Cape, where you will have a three-day window before inclement weather forces your return. In that time, you will investigate and determine the cause of the... unpleasantness on the video."

Unpleasantness. Right.

"Dismissed, Agent Mulder."

I nod, stand up, and leave. I really hate that man.

XXXXX

The tape is one of the most terrifying things I've ever seen. It starts with a party – the Ice Core team, whose names I glean from the file folder, celebrating how deep they've managed to drill into an ice sheet.

And then the screen turns blue, and the tape is dated yesterday, which would make it the day before yesterday what with the time difference and all. Just shy of 36 hours, and a week after the last transmission.

"We're not... who.... we are."

Holy shit. It's the same guy. John Richter, team captain.

"We're not... who we are."

What the hell does that mean? He's snapped. "It goes no further than this. It stops... right here... right now."

And then someone rushes him and the transmission ends. Static.

I scan through the file. Physicals, psych evals, all normal. Everyone sane, everyone ready for the mission. Only not, I guess. The records of the ice core samples they sent back show progress in the work, that drilling was on schedule and that they were almost done, just had to analyze the last few samples they brought up. They were climatologists and geologists and geophysicists, looking into the history of Earth's climate.

What the hell happened up there?

I glance at the clock. It's nearly ten, and I have to drive to Quantico to tell Scully. This should be fun.

XXXXX

She is in between two classes when I find her in an empty classroom at Quantico, going through a lesson plan on forensic techniques for future FBI pathologists – in other words, teaching others what she actually does for me. She looks up when I come in, and for a second she tenses and I think she'll refuse to go, but instead she just says, "New case?"

"New case," I confirm, holding up the video. She pulls a TV out of the corner while I plug in the disc included in the file and print out all the documents they provided that were forwarded from the USGS while she plugs it in, and, and I put the tape into the VCR and hit play.

I've seen it already but I can't look away.

"Team Captain John Richter here. It's been a couple of frustrating months but after a great deal of stick-with-it-ness, we're very proud to report that as of a half-hour ago, we surpassed the previous record for drilling down into an ice sheet."

"All right!" yell the men. They are high-fiving each other and start shaking hands. I hit pause, because this need some kind of context. She has moved to leaning against the teacher's desk, and is now reading the file I left sitting there.

"This team of scientists made up the Arctic Ice Core Project. They were sent to Alaska by the government's Advanced Research Project Agency nearly a year ago to drill into the arctic ice," I tell her, which she's probably already read. The first paper prints out but it's nothing I haven't already seen. She sits down at the desk.

"The samples they removed contained trapped gases, dust, chemicals... evidence that could reveal the structure of the earth's climate back to the dawn of man. Their work was a success, nearly completed. No reports or indications of problems of any kind until only a week later, this next transmission was received." I push play again.

AICP  
Arctic  
Ice Core  
Project  
Transmission received:  
November 5, 1993  
8:30 AM AST"

Richter is sitting in front of the camera, much closer than last time. "We're not... who... we are. We're not... who we are. It goes no further than this. It stops... right here... right now." The man rushes him again. Static.

"What happened up there?"

My thoughts exactly. I hit stop and sit next to her where she's moved in front of the TV.

"So far nobody's been able to reach to reach the compound because of bad weather. Obviously, they either think we're either brilliant or expendable because we've pulled the assignment," I tell her, cursing Blevins.

"Is it severe isolation distress?"

The answer is no. "These were top geophysicists. They were trained and screened for this project in every way imaginable, including psychological makeup. We leave for Nome today."

There is a US map on the wall and I use it to show her Icy Cape. "We'll meet with three scientists familiar with the ice core project then head north up to the Icy Cape. I show her on the map in the file. The National Weather Service reports a three-day window to get in and out before the next arctic storm. Bring your mittens."

I leave her there, staring at the map. "Scully?"

She turns to face me. "I have one more class, Mulder, and then I'll pack. Do I have time?"

The answer is yes, she does.

"Good. I'll see you at Dulles, then, Mulder." She walks past me, down the hallway.

I suppose I could have brought worse news but I don't know how.

XXXXX

Learning the names of the people who are going to go with them to Icy Cape.

Mulder and Scully travel from Washington DC to Nome Alaska overnight flight. Arrive November 8.

XXXXX

The trip to Doolittle Airfield is conducted in a truck (otherwise known as the Nome, Alaska taxi service) driven by a nearly-silent man named Elmer who cannot seem to stay on the right side of the road. We arrive at Doolittle only to see a crowd of men loading a plane full of cargo and no pilot to be seen anywhere obvious. There is a pudgy guy sitting by the side of the hangar listening to his walkman.

As we approach the man, I can hear him shouting, "Fouts looks over the Raiders' defense... here's the snap. Raiders blitz! Fouts dumps it across the middle to Winslow! He's at the 15! The 10! Touchdown San Diego!"

Oh dear.

"Touchdown! Fouts... is... God!"

He spins around and sees us standing there, pulls off his headphones, and smiles at us. "Sorry. My team scored."

"There's no football on Wednesday," says Scully.

Yeah, and also... I set down my bag. "Fouts retired in '87, didn't he?"

"No, this is just some of my all-time favorite plays on tape." Oh dear Lord. "You two F.B.I.?"

At least he likes sports. "Agent Mulder and Agent Scully, you?" I shake his hand. Smile and nod, Mulder, just deal with the fact that you have a fellow geek.

"Danny Murphy, professor of geology at U. C. San Diego."

And you decide to go there to study ice why? "San Diego? You get much of a chance to study ice down there?"

"Just what's around the keg."

Can't be the first time he's heard that, or the first time he's said it, but it's funny anyway. A man and a woman approach us now, pushing their luggage. Scully, by process of elimination, asks, "Dr. DaSilva, Dr. Hodge?"

The man nods. "Yeah, sorry we're late."

We all shake hands again, and go through the introductions until, "Can I see some identification?" asks Hodge.

Really. "What for?"

"I just want to make sure we are who we say we are." He's seen the tape. That answers that question. He pulls out his own wallet and we all dutifully pull out ours, and a round of "That's mes" and "That's yous" follows.

"Thanks a lot," says Hodge. "Appreciate it." We put our wallets away. "Well, now that we know who we are, anybody care to take a guess as to why we're going?"

Danny pipes up, "Well, two federal agents, a geologist, a medical doctor and a toxicologist. That should give us some idea what they're thinking."

Yeah. "I assume you all took a look at the tape," adds Scully.

DaSilva and Hodge glance at each other. "Something wrong?" I ask.

"Come on, you're F.B.I. You have to know more than we do," DaSilva responds.

Long, long trip. Long.

At that moment, a tall thin man pulls up in a pickup truck and climbs out. "You folks the ones going up to Icy Cape?"

"Yeah."

"Then I'm the one flying you. My name's Bear. The plane's across the way, provisions are loaded. Grab your gear." He grabs his own bag and heads for the plane.

"Oh, could we see some credentials?" Thanks, Hodge.

Bear stops and chuckles, then walks back over to Hodge. "Credentials. The only credentials that I have is that I'm the only pilot willing to fly you up there. You don't like those credentials... walk."

Message received. Danny and I chuckle to ourselves but Scully and DaSilva remain quiet. Who cares. Let the Battle of the Sexes begin.

XXXXX

The flight itself

XXXXX

I pry open the door and they all file in behind me, walking into a murder scene. Richter and one of his men are lying on the ground with their guns by their hands.

Well that sucks. "Bear? See if you can get the power started."

"Anything to get out of here." He moves away. My sentiments exactly.

"Where do we start?" asks Scully. She knows the job.

"Body bags are on the plane," says Hodge. Although where we'll put all the bodies I don't know.

And don't forget the rules. "Before we touch anything, we have to thorougly document the site," I remind them. Scully pulls out her camera and we head into the room.

"Flashing," says Scully, as she snaps a picture. I open the freezer (Ice Cores 3,175 – 3,260) and find melting ice. Danny walks up behind me while I watch it melt away.

"That's what they were drilling for. Quarter of a million years melting away in a couple of days," I point out.

"I want to preserve some samples," he says, and takes out a container.

The generator bangs and DaSilva jumps. "It's the generator," I tell her.

"Oh."

We walk farther back and the lights come on. Something growls – not the generator. DaSilva turns - "Agent Mulder! Look out!"

It jumps on me, all teeth and claws and paws and angry muscle mass. Everyone comes running and I struggle to stand, to get my feet under me, but I can't. Bear grabs it and Scully comes running too.

"Hold on," says Bear, like I can do anything.

The dog bites him, then, and so I grab something – a coat – and wrap it around the dog's head when suddenly Hodge has a needle of something.

"Hold it down!" And suddenly he's shooting the dog full of something and the dog whimpers and goes into a doze. Danny and DaSilva help me lift it onto the table.

"You okay?" asks Scully.

Dear God.

"Yeah, he didn't break the skin. Bear, you okay?"

"He got me."

Shit.

"Take that jacket off," says Hodge.

"Just give me the stuff, I'll do it myself," Bear grouses.

"Is it rabies?" DaSilva asks.

That would suck. Hodge and Scully run over to check. "I don't see any indication of glodal spasm or tetany. If it is rabies, it's certainly not a strain I'm familiar with," he concludes. They manipulate a limb or two.

Scully speaks up. "Look at this. Black nodules. Swollen lymph nodes." I take a good look. Ew.

"Symptoms of the bubonic plague," DaSilva pipes up.

"I'll do a blood test, we'll take it from that," says Hodge.

Scully keeps looking at the dog. "This dog has got a skin irritation on it's neck," she says.

So it has lice. Great. I'll get lice.

Danny jumps in. "It looks like it's been scratching off it's own hair."

Can't be good.

"Look at this, look at this!" yells Scully. Hodge goes running over and I get the sense that I don't want to see this.

"What the hell was that?" asks Danny.

"What was what?" I ask.

Scully looks deadly serious. "Something was moving under it's skin."

Yeah. Didn't want to see.

XXXXX

Scully does autopsies

XXXXX

Two hours later, Scully has finished and comes at me with her notepad. "From the autopsies, it's clear that these men killed each other. There are contusions around the throat areas of three men, evidence of strangulation."

God. What the hell did they dig up?

"Richter and Campbell killed themselves. I also found tissue damage due to fever."

Killed themselves? Why?

"Did any of them have the black spots that the dog had?" Asks Bear.

"No. None of them had the black nodules."

"So, uh, those spots didn't have anything to do with those guys killing each other, right?"

Why is he asking?

"I wouldn't rule it out. I just reexamined the dog. The nodules are gone," Hodge says, re-entering the room.

"What could that mean?" I ask him.

"Well, it could mean that the spots are a symptom of some disease at an early stage." He leads us to his "lab" as Bear loads the plane with bodies. DaSilva begins shifting evidence bags, looking for her notes, I guess. I look around – clipboards everywhere in here – and find a file folder where someone has written, over and over, "We are not who we are."

Whatever the hell that means.

What is this thing? "Danny?"

He's listening to his walkman again.

"Danny." I wave my hand in front of his face and manage to startle him. He takes out his earphones.

"Sorry. The play-off game against Miami, '82. Helps to get my mind off stuff." Nerd.

"My interpretation of satellite remote sensing photos is a little rusty," I tell him, holding up the diagram on the clipboard.

"All right, this is the Icy Cape area. It approximates the depth of the ice sheet to be about 3,000 meters thick."

That's not what the other paper says. "I also found this data and if I'm reading it correctly, the team actually found the ice sheet to be twice that depth."

"That's very good. The numbers indicate the topography to be concave. Looks like they were drilling inside a meteor crater."

Okay. This is all making sense, but I wish it wasn't.

"No," Hodge says to Scully, "you're wrong. That's impossible."

Meteors come from outer space. Outer space is the home of some weird-ass shit.

What happened here definitely qualifies as weird-ass.

"I analyzed two samples," says Scully as I wander over to the desk they're working at, waiting to learn the definition of weird-ass as it applies to Icy Cape, Alaska.

"What'd you find?"

"There seems to be a presence of ammonium hydroxide in Richter's blood sample." Whatever that means, although my fledgling knowledge of biochemistry tells me it's not normal.

"It's not possible," says Hodge, as DaSilva comes over to join in. "Ammonia would vaporize at human body temperature."

Ah. Yes.

"I checked all the air filtration systems. I found no evidence of any such toxins."

Toxins. Vaporize at human body temperature. Check and check.

Murphy comes over with his two cents' worth. "I have." Weren't we just talking about meteor craters, I wonder, and now here we are. Wherever here is. "In the ice. And that's not all there is." Weird. Ass. Shit. He gestures to me and we all walk back to the desk he's set up at. Bear even listens from the door. "I found a high ratio of ammonia to water in the ice core. The earth's atmosphere could never have produced such high levels, not even a quarter of a million years ago. Look in the scope." So I do.

Now, I'm not a biologist.

Or a pathologist.

Or anything other than a psychologist who went to a really snooty school.

But...

This little worm thingy in the scope – well, I'd say it qualifies as weird.

"Unless a foreign object was introduced into that environment," I finish for Murphy.

Vaporizes in human body. Toxic. But whatever this is – it's not human, that's for damn sure.

Humans don't squirm that much.

"Tell me that's not a foreign object," says Murphy.

It just squirms, and I start getting scared. "Holy..." I can't even finish my Batman reference, "Scully." Scully has answers, I think. She has a plan. She always has an answer. Maybe not the answer, but an answer.

"That same thing is in Richter's blood."

Oh boy.

She walks back to her desk and looks in her microscope. "What if that single-celled organism is the larval stage of a larger animal?"

No more answers for Scully.

Hodge looks up. "That's kind of a leap, don't you think?"

Yes. I do. But...

"The evidence is there," she says as I look at Richter's blood.

"Maybe the organism in the ice core somehow got into the men," says Murphy.

DaSilva scowls. "Come on, nothing can survive in sub-zero temperatures for a quarter of a million years."

Unless. "Unless that's how it lives."

Bear joins in now. "Look-it, I don't see why you're squabbling over some bug. You said it yourself, Scully, your autopsy found those men killed each other. That's it. Now I say, let's just get the hell out of here."

"I agree," says Hodge. "We can have the bodies sent to a facility where they can make a definitive diagnosis in the event that something was missed, Agent Scully."

We can't. He knows we can't. "If those bodies are infected with an unknown organism, we can't take them back. We can't go back without proper quarantine procedures. We can't risk bringing back the next plague."

"Let's say you're right, they came down with something. We haven't and I ain't waiting around until we do."

He's scared. So am I. "I think it's safe to go back," says Hodge. "There's no reason why we'd be infected. We've taken all the necessary biological safeguards."

"The dog did bite Bear," says DaSilva.

"It jumped Mulder too!" He argues. He gets right in my face but DaSilva jumps in between us.

"It didn't break the skin -" I begin to argue, but Scully jumps in.

"Hey, look, there's only one way to proceed. A good doctor eliminates every possibility. We must determine if any of us is infected."

Okay.

Hodge chimes in next. "Alright, parasitic diagnostic procedure requires that each of us provide a blood and a stool sample."

"A stool sample?" asks Bear.

Danny is less than enthused. "Well, this kind of travel always makes that kind of tough... for me."

Scully gets some jars from somewhere.

"Okay, anyone got the morning sports section handy?" I ask.

"I ain't dropping my cargo for no one," says Bear, before smashing his against the wall. Nice. "What I'm doing is getting my gear, getting my plane and flying the hell out of here." And he starts to leave.

"You can't go, the dog bit you," I point out. Losing battle.

"I got hired to fly you up here and fly you back. No one said this might be part of the deal. So the deal is over."

"We can't let him leave without him being checked," says Scully.

"Who's going to stop him?" asks DaSilva.

"We have to. We can't risk infecting the population," I tell her, and I know I'm right. This sucks.

"He gets on that plane, I'm gonna be on it with him," she says, which I can't really blame her for.

"Well, we don't have time to argue about it," says Scully.

Okay, time to step in. "Take a vote. Whoever believes we should confine Bear until he agrees to an examination?" Scully, Murphy, and I raise our hands. That's that. "All right." I pull my gun and Bear returns with his bags. "Bear, we just want to check you out. If we don't find any trace of the parasite or the virus, we'll all go."

He stops, looks at me, and walks to the desk.

Guess he saw the gun.

"All right, give me the damn jar."

He takes it and I go to holster my gun, and then -

SMASH!!!!

The world spins a bit and I see a few stars at the edge o my vision and a lot of things are happening all at once. It takes me a minute to recover and by then Scully has tackled Bear so I run over and help her sit on him.

"Murphy," I call, "get a rope!"

"Right." He moves away.

I pick Bear up and push his head down on the counter to give myself more leverage. He was squirming too much on the ground. "Here!" calls Danny, handing me a rope. I tie Bear's hands and then he starts twitching and DaSilva starts screaming, "Oh my God... oh!"

Something is moving in Bear's neck.

Question answered.

"Get my bag!" yells Hodge.

"What are you gonna do?" asks Scully?

Danny holds Bear's head down as DaSilva grabs the bag.

"Scalpel, I'm cutting it out."

"We don't know enough about it!" I tell him.

"It's killing him!" yells Hodge, as Bear starts shaking harder. "Scully, help me hold the skin."

Point taken.

Ew ew ew. Scully reaches in with gloves and holds the skin apart. DaSilva sets out some tools. "Hold Still, Bear!" yells Hodge, as Bear screams. "Forceps!" DaSilva hands them over. "Hold still, Bear, just another second. You're gonna be okay." Ew ew ew. Hodge pulls a pale, gross looking thing out. It gets stuck and he has to pull harder. Ew ew ew ew ew. I run away and grab a jar, which they drop the worm into, and then I seal the lid and hand it to Murphy, then run to the radio.

We need to leave.

Now.

"This is the A.I.C.P. Investigative Team calling Doolittle Airfield, come in," I speak into the microphone.

"D.A.F. Responding."

"This is Agent Mulder, we have a serious biological hazard. Request air pick-up and quarantine procedures, over."

Nothing.

"Come in, Doolittle Airfield."

"We copy, Agent Mulder. This area is under a heavy storm and no aircraft can get out for the next day. Maybe the military base in Kotzebue can set up a quarantine. Advise immediate evacuation, the arctic storm is bearing in your direction, over."

Oh shit.

"We were told we would have three clear days of weather, over," I inform the unhelpful voice.

"Welcome to the top of the world, Agent Mulder. Over."

We need to leave. Now. I return to the group. "Is Bear in any condition to fly? We don't get out in an hour, we don't get out for days."

Scully looks at Hodge and I'm not gonna like this. Not at all. She looks back at me, and I know.

We're screwed.

"He's dead."

I walk back to the body, pick up the jar-o-worm.

This better be some meteor crater.

XXXXX

The worm stops squirming around eventually so after some debate, Scully fills the jar with liquid ammonia. It seemed to do fine in ammonia-filled ice, after all, for about a thousand years.

The worm starts swimming again.

We all end up staring at the thing, until finally Hodge says, "Well, it's similar to a tapeworm in that it has a scolex with suckers and hooks."

Okay. I don't want to hear the flip side of this and I don't like tapeworms. "So then it's familiar?" asks Danny. "Something you can deal with?"

And I'm betting no.

Hodge closes the freezer door.

Not good at all.

"What?" asks DaSilva.

"No. Very different from any organism, at least that I know of."

Yeah. Not good. He walks back over to me.

"Have you figured out how it's transmitted yet?" I ask him. He's gonna blame me.

"Exchange of fluids, touch, air, all of the above? I don't know."

Bloody hell.

"All of the other dead bodies had the creature," Scully says, holding another jar, as she comes back into the room. "This is the only one that's still alive."

Kills the host, then dies itself. Check.

We all walk over to her work area to get a closer look, even though we've seen it already.

"Were they all in the spine?" I ask her.

"No. It appears that they were in the hypothalmus gland deep in the brain."

Lovely. She sets down the jar and fills it up with ammonia.

"Hypothalmus... what was that again?" asks Murphy.

"It's a gland that secretes hormones - although I don't know _why_ a parasite would want to attach to it," Scully tells him. She pops the jar in the freezer.

Hodge starts talking now, wasting my time by educating Danny. "Hypothalmus releases acetlycholine, which produces violent, aggresive behavior. That might be a connection. Everybody that's been infected certainly seems to act aggresively." He's pacing like a lecturing professor now. "Maybe the worm feeds on the acetlycholine, which floods our capacity to control violent behavior."

"Well, a parasite shouldn't want to kill it's host," points out Scully.

"It doesn't kill you... until it's extracted. Then it releases a poison."

Huh. This means we have a cause of death. "You're saying it's possible that the worm makes you want to kill other people, which is maybe what happened to the first team."

I let them chew on that for a minute.

"Or what could happen to us," says DaSilva.

"Well, it's just a theory. We don't have any definite proof," says Hodge.

"Except five dead men," Murphy points out.

Scully chimes in now. "If the worm makes people violently aggressive then why did Richter and Campbell kill themselves?"

There's only one reason I can think of. "Maybe they did it to save us," I tell them. And here we are, not being saved, or safe.

I leave that bombshell firmly dropped and wander away, into the living quarters. I end up in Richter's room. What could he have been thinking, I wonder, and how did he know what was happening? How did they manage to get the willpower to kill themselves and not each other? How did they do it?

Didn't they know we'd come for them?

And what the hell are we gonna do anyway, huh? How are we going to get out of here? Back to our lives, our jobs, away from this madness. The top of the world. Yeah, I'm on top of the fucking world. I'm cohabiting with worms out of a meteor crater in an ice core drilling station full of sleep deprived -

Worms out of a meteor crater.

Why didn't I see it before?

We can't do a genetic workup here, but what the hell would we find if we could? Maybe that they didn't come from Earth at all? It would make sense, after all, in a way. If something microbial was going to come to Earth, it would be in an asteroid. My mind even sees it swimming around, eating all the Earth microbes and gaining their abilities. Like the scolex. Or maybe scolexes/scolexi/sco-whatevers are just that useful that alien worlds have them too?

So we have to get out of here, get back, and get a team of scientists to come study the alien tapeworms.

Check.

Step one: convince Scully.

I find her in the shed, where we stored the bodies. She is finishing another exam as I walk in, but I can tell she's preoccupied. "I'm just, uh... double-checking. Making sure I didn't miss anything," she tells me.

"Just some sleep, huh?" I reply. God, I'm exhausted. What time is it in D.C, anyway?

"Sleep. I'm so tired I can't sleep."

Yeah, time to go to bed then. "We're all wired and hypersensitive, it'll be good to get a fresh start in the morning," I reply, but there's no fresh to start.

"Mulder, I don't want to waste a second trying to find a way to kill this thing." She goes to leave the room.

She can't.

She won't.

She wouldn't.

She would.

She shouldn't.

Should she?

"I don't know if we should kill it."

She stops midstride and looks back at me. No going back now. "This area of the ice sheet was formed over a meteor crater. The worm lived in ammonia. It survived sub-zero temperatures. Theorists in alternative life-designs believe in ammonia-supported life systems on planets with freezing temperatures."

Here we go.

"No."

Keep going, Mulder. "The meteor that crashed here a quarter of a million years ago may have carried that type of life to earth."

And... impact. "Mulder, that pilot developed surface symptoms within a few minutes. Within a few hours, that parasite had total control. What would happen if this got into the population? A city the size of New York could be infected within a few days."

Yeah, been there and thought that. "Exactly. But what do we know about it? This organism might be lying dormant in another crater." The odds are miniscule, but so were the odds of life developing on Earth.

"Mulder, if we don't kill it now, we run the risk of becoming Richter and Campbell with guns to our heads."

Yes, indeed. "But if we do kill it now, we may never know how to stop it or anything like it in the future."

She stops talking, just for a moment, but then she starts up again. "Future? Mulder, how can you talk about the future when right now, there's a station full of dead bodies? Who says you or anyone else has the right to -"

Someone has to and I'm here. "Do we have the right to destroy an organism which can provide knowledge about extraterrestrial life if it means we run the risk of being destroyed by that life?"

"Mulder, that's ridiculous! This is all supposition, there's not a shred of proof."

Now I'm just mad. "Scully, it's a risk either way, I just want to end this knowing as much as we can."

"No, Mulder, you just don't care about them posing a biological hazard!"

Of course I care. "We can contain a hazard, Scully. They need to be studied."

"I don't know that it can be contained, Mulder," she admits. "You could be sacrificing the entire world to study these things!"

We have to try, can't she see that? Anyway, the jars seem to be working pretty well. "How do you know it can't be contained?" I ask her.

"It can! By extermination, we should take those bodies, worms and all, outside and incinerate them!"

And then the others walk in. "Something going on we should know about?" Asks Hodge, and then to Scully, "Agent Scully, you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine. It's nothing," she replies, distractedly.

"You seem a little bit stressed out."

Oh, Lord.

She nods along for a second until she gets it, then rounds on him. "What the hell are you trying to say?"

She gets up in his face, too. Scary little woman when she's riled. I have to get in between them before they come to blows. "Let's all just settle down, it's been a long hard day. We're all tired and scared. Let's not all turn on one another."

Good words, Fox. Good words.

Now I just have to live by them.

"At least not without a good reason," says Hodge.

He's making it too easy. "Maybe we should all get some sleep."

"You kidding? You think any of us could sleep right now? Guys, let's face it, we've got to check for spots. Any person or persons who has them should be confined. Are we agreed on that?"

Yeah. Agreed.

"Are you going to do the exams?" asks DaSilva.

"No. We do them in front of each other. No secrets," says Scully.

I'm gonna have to take my clothes off in public.

XXXXX

We end up splitting up. Men in one room, women in the other. Gotta be PC, after all.

Danny, Hodge, and I end up standing in the lab, facing each other.

Time to strip. "Before anyone passes judgement, may I remind you we are in the Arctic," I tell them, because smartass remarks come along with the nose and the bad attitude. Thanks for that, Dad.

XXXXX

After that's over, Danny mutters, "Well, I wanna get some sleep."

I agree.

Surprisingly, as long as it's not my idea, Hodge seems to think it's a good one. "Okay, we can use the team's bedrooms for now." He grabs his gear as the women come back in.

"We're clean," says DaSilva.

"We're gonna turn in," Danny replies, grabbing his gear. The others follow us into the sleeping quarters.

"Sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite," Hodge says as he picks a room and walks in, shutting the door behind him.

Lovely.

Bedbugs.

Bed worms, more like.

"Yeah," says DaSilva, "good night."

Wonderful. She goes into a room and so does Danny, leaving me and Scully alone. "Good night, Mulder."

"Good night, Scully," I tell her.

"At least everyone's okay," she says.

For now. "Don't forget, the spots on the dog went away." Her face falls and I hate myself, so I go into my room and sit on the bed.

I'm not going to be able to sleep. I know this.

Someone else could be infected. I take my gun and hold it. It comforts me.

What if I'm infected and I don't know it?

What if I hurt someone? Should I have a gun, then? What if someone comes after me – what if' they're infected? What if Hodge decides to do away with all of us because we could be infected? What if he's extra paranoid because he is infected?

What if Scully's infected?

The thoughts rattle in my head until I drift off into the dreamless sleep I've exhausted myself into.

XXXXX

When I wake, it's quiet, and I don't know why I woke. My gun is still there, and I decide to check on the others. A door closes.

Someone is moving around.

I go into the hall, and find that Danny's door is open.

Is Danny infected?

No one's there. He left his walkman on his bed and this worries me. I head for the lab – really the only other place he could have gone. It's where the bathrooms are. The dog is growling and it startles me in the darkness, but it's still locked up.

No one's here.

Something clicks. No, drips. From the freezer.

At first I think it's more water, but it's too dark. It's red. Some piece of my brain refuses to acknowledge what it is but I can smell the coppery smell and my work brain opens the door on autopilot.

Danny is inside, and he is dead. In fact, he falls out of the freezer and knocks me over. One look tells me there's no saving him – his throat is cut.

The others walk in then. "Mulder," asks Scully, "What are you doing?"

"Murphy's dead," I tell her. Which should be obvious.

"You killed him," says Hodge. Nice.

"I found him like this. I heard one of the doors close, I came out to check it out. It's one of you." But he won't believe that.

"He's lying."

"You could have done it and not even known," says DaSilva.

"No, he said he didn't do it," says Scully.

Thank you. "I don't have any of the symptoms," I point out.

"You checked him yourself, Hodge," says Scully.

"Yeah, six hours ago."

No no no no no. "It was one of you!" I head for Hodge, trying to make him see reason.

Scully jumps in between us. "Stop it! Just stop it, shut up!" Throttling the guy probably wouldn't have helped my case. We settle for glaring at each other. "Mulder, just put the gun down and let Hodge give you a blood test."

I don't trust that bastard. "What, so he can doctor the results? I'm not gonna let him stick a needle in me! He could be infected!" He's never trusted us and now he probably has a worm in his his brain. I don't think so!

"He has to be confined now!" yells Hodge.

"Then just turn around and let us take a look at your neck!" says Scully.

They're all reacting too strongly. I can't tell who is on my side. "I'm not turning my back on anyone! As far as I'm concerned, you're all infected!" Not Scully. She's as reasonable as ever. Hodge, though, and DaSilva? No idea. I back away.

"Hodge is right, we oughta lock him up!" cries DaSilva, which doesn't earn her any sanity points.

He grabs a crowbar and starts toward me, but I point my gun at him. Scully points hers at me. "Mulder!"

I get it, I do. He's just so inflammatory, I can't tell. DaSilva's still quiet. Scully is reasonable. Part of me recognizes that I'm acting paranoid too. With reason. "Scully, get that gun off me!"

"Mulder, you have to understand!"

I do. I understand. I really really do. I point my gun back at her anyway. She understands too. "Put it down!"

"You put it down first!"

This is rapidly getting absurd. "Scully! For God sakes, it's me!"

"Mulder... you may not be who you are."

We're not who we are.

Jesus.

What effect could it have on memory?

I was asleep – and then I wasn't.

I haven't slept that well in ages.

It could be.

Could.

I lower my gun.

XXXXX

Scully leads me to a storage room and I step inside. I'm not infected, my brain keeps telling me. And even if I am, there may be more worms.

She goes to shut the door.

"In here, I'll be safer than you," I tell her. The door closes.

XXXXX

What if she doesn't come back?

What will happen? Will they come? To kill me?

To save me if I'm infected?

I'm not, of course. My mind says no. But there's that fear that maybe I am. Maybe I'm not who I am and don't know it.

Only Richter knew it. How long was he infected?

And Scully – aside from intending to come back, is she safe out there? I know she isn't safe.

Hell, I'm not safe in here, despite what I said. Eventually someone will come for me. Eventually they will kill me.

Hell, they might convince Scully to kill me.

Which I know is crazy because, guess what, she doesn't do things without a calm, rational, logical reason. Unless there's a parasite in her brain, of course.

Shit. I'm screwed.

And she's not coming back. Even if she does, I can't trust her. I mean, I can – if she is who she is. And if I am who I am. Would I be pounding on doors now, If I wasn't? How would I tell, really? If I'm not who I am?

Would I even be able to tell?

I hate this. I hate being locked in here. I hate Scully and I hate Hodge and I hate DaSilva too just on principle. I hate Alaska and I hate snow and I hate meteors and I hate football and Danny Murphy's obsession with said football and I hate ice worms.

Maybe there's one in my brain. It would explain the hating.

Scully won't be back, I realize. Like always, I'm going to die alone.

How pathetic is that? My conviction about the end of my own life, reduced to a William Shatner – inspired line from one of the worst. Movies. Ever. "I've always known I'll die alone." Doesn't matter when or where, in a storage room in Alaska or in the middle of some field in the middle of nowhere or even in bed an old old man, I'm gonna be alone when I go. I just haven't had that much of an effect on anyone.

XXXXX

She comes back eventually, of course. I was stupid to think she wouldn't. Stupid.

Stupid.

Right.

And I quickly discover she's alone. "It's just you?" I ask, even though I know it is.

"Yes." The door shuts and she turns on the light..

"It's one of them," I tell her. I have proof now. Sort of. It's not me. Not not not.

"No one's been killed since you've been in here."

It's not under stress. Not under pressure. "So?"

"We found a way to kill it. Two worms in one host will kill each other."

This will not end well. "You give me one worm, you'll infect me." Not good not good not good notgood notgood notgood.

"If that's true, then why didn't you let us inspect you?" she whispers.

"I would have but you pulled a gun on me. Now I don't trust them. I wanted to trust you," I whisper back. I wanted to trust her.

I still do.

But only her.

"Okay. But now they're not here."

So I turn around. She looks at my nteck and says nothing. She would tell me if it was me.

She heads for the door but I have to know. I have to. So I grab her arm and she gasps. I try to be gentle and not scare her, and then I look at her neck.

Nothing.

Nothing.

I let myself relax.

"You're clear," I tell her just as she says the same thing. We chuckle, and we leave the freezer together.

"He's clean," says Scully. "I just examined him. He's... uninfected."

"So is she," I tell them, before they can start.

"Which means that it must be one of you," she finishes.

"All right," says Hodge. "Go over to the main building. I'd like to check him myself. Then he can examine both of us. Wanna lead the way?"

Trust. It has to start somewhere.

Just have to be careful.

I take the lead, and then suddenly someone grabs me from behind. Hodge, I think. DaSilva grabs Scully and then there's the sound of a slamming door. Hodge puts his arm around my neck in a chokehold and then there's a needle coming at me so I shove Hodge into DaSilva and they go down. He comes at me again and I shove him again. He grabs me, pulls me down, and I'm stuck with no leverage. "Get the worm!"

"Bastards! No!"

I can see something out of the corner of my eye.

"Stop... no!"

But they don't stop.

And then suddenly they do. "Oh my God!" yells Hodge. He lets me up, and I get to my feet. DaSilva is standing up too. "Mulder! It's her!"

She tries to run, she tries to escape, she knocks me over even, but then there's Scully in the door right behind me and we both run and let her out. "Scully! It's DaSilva!"

And she grabs the forceps lying on the floor, with the worm swinging from the end – the worm meant for me – and runs into the other room, where DaSilva is trashing the lab and screaming like a lunatic. I get there just as she's grabbing a gun out of the evidence bag and I tackle her to the ground. Hodge helps me and we hold her down and she's squirming and it feels so wrong. So so wrong but we have to and she's screaming and then Scully looks at me. "Mulder! After this, there won't be any left!"

The last one. If Hodge is infected we're screwed.

"Do it!" We have to.

Even though she's screaming.

The coughing and choking is worse than the screaming, I soon decide.

And then even that stops.

But she's breathing.

"It's all right." says Scully. "It's all over. It all stops right here. Right now."

And we are who we are.

XXXXX

DaSilva sleeps under armed guard for two days before the plane arrives full of people in HazMat suits. After hours of debate, they decide to go with what Scully wanted to do when they first showed up, so DaSilva is moved out in the plane with us, and we're all examined by doctors in containment suits back at Doolittle. Hodge, Scully, and I are given clean bills of health. DaSilva is too, but they decide to quarantine her and the dog to make sure it's really gone.

But I know it is.

That's how it works.

Sometimes I hate aliens.

Back in Nome, though, wating for permission to get on with it, I spend the time in quarantine making plans to go back. With the CDC.

Eventually the red tape clears and they pack DaSilva into an ambulance and drive her away.

Hodge approaches me. "She's being put in quarantine along with the dog. We'll keep her there until we're sure she won't infect the rest of the population. Meanwhile, our tests came back normal so we've been released. Plane ready. Take you as far from the ice as you want to go."

I know all this of course.

"I'm going back to the site," I tell him. "This time, I'm going fully prepared with proper equipment. There's still a lot of research to be done on it's genetic structure, on it's origin..."

He cuts me off. "Wait, Mulder. Don't you know?"

Go figure. "Know what?" Why am I not surprised?

"Forty-five minutes after they evacuated us, they torched the place. There's nothing left."

Lovely.

"Who did that?" asks Scully.

"The military, centers for disease control... you oughta know. They're your people." He walks away.

I turn to Scully. "It's still there, Scully. 200,000 years down in the ice."

"Leave it there."

She takes her bag and walks away.

She's right, I think.

But I wish I could know what's under there.

Just for once.


	9. Space

A/N: I hate this crappy episode, and trying to muddle through it has led me to a decision: the next time I watch an ep and realize that I'd rather die than make a story out of it, I'm gonna skip it. We don't always need to hear the details of Mulder's thoughts through, say... Genderbender. Just for example.

It goes without saying, but if this was mine, I wouldn't want to claim it anyway. So, no contest. You can have it.

* * *

The note appears in my mail on a Saturday, postmarked in Houston.

Agent Mulder.

I work for NASA. Something is very wrong. Meet me on the steps in the park across from the Hoover building tomorrow at noon. I need to talk to someone from the FBI.

There is no signature.

Why is it that informants always feel like they need to make their grammar as choppy as possible? Seriously.

So I call Scully, who answers on the first ring, something that bothers me a tiny bit. It's Sunday, after all. Shouldn't she be... somewhere, doing whatever people with lives do?

"Scully."

"Scully, it's me," I tell her, wondering why she's waiting by the phone. "Are you busy tomorrow?"

"As a matter of fact, Ethan and I had planned to-"

Great. Ethan. His name keeps trickling out of her mouth every now and again. Never met him. Don't care to. She prattles on, something about a concert and the word art thrown around a few times. "Scully," I tell her when she's done, "I just got a note asking for a meet tomorrow at noon. Can you make it with me?"

"Mulder, did you hear what I just said? I have plans."

Okay. This is how far I can push her. "Okay," I tell her. "That's all right. I can do this alone."

"Where's the meet?" she sighs.

"Across from the Hoover," I reply trying not to get my hopes up.

"I'll see you at noon," she says, and hangs up the phone.

Why do I feel like I just won the lottery?

XXXXX

After a restless night without much to do after Star Trek was over (I'm really liking that Odo guy, and am I crazy or is there something going on between him and Major Kira?) except read and watch movies – some dirty, some not – I'm chomping at the bit to meet this person, whoever it is, that works at NASA. NASA! I love NASA! SETI, NASA, pretty much anything space related. After all, I was once a little boy, and little boys like things that go boom, and space shuttles make a really satisfactory boom. Right before they lose gravity, which is also cool.

So, even though it's my day off, I shower, and I change, and I get dressed, and I go sit in the park where Scully likes to have lunch. And I wait. And Scully waits with me.

She meets me at the steps just like she promised, not another word about Ethan, or the fact that it's Sunday. She takes one of my sunflower seeds out of my package and we sit there for a minute in silence.

"What did the note say?" she finally asks.

"Just that they worked for NASA," I reply, handing her the note. "They wanted to talk to somebody from the FBI."

"Why the cloak and dagger routine?" She glanced at the note, but there's not much there.

Well, Scully, my psychic powers have revealed to me that we need to be very secretive because... "I have no idea."

"Think it's a crank?"

We've been here five minutes or so with no sign of anyone. I check my watch. "It's beginning to look that way." Give it another twenty-five to be safe.

The thing is, it could be anyone. It could be the woman with the stroller across the park, or the one who's walking down the ramp behind us and keeps going. Who knows, maybe we don't look like they think we look -

The woman turns around and comes back. "My name is Michelle Generoo." She shakes my hand.

"Fox Mulder..." I introduce myself, even though I think she figured out who I am. She's kind of pretty, dressed in a suit and for some reason, a plaid shirt that I think may be a fashion faux pas. Her brown hair is long, and she's wearing these huge earrings that aren't completely unattractive.

"I sent you the note," she tells us, shaking Scully's hand.

Scully doesn't comment on how that's become obvious. "Hi. Special Agent Dana Scully."

"I'm sorry to have to take these precautions. I flew up from Houston this morning. I work at the Space Center there."

Cool. "In what capacity?"

"I'm the Mission Control Communications Commander for the Space Shuttle Program." Wow. Communications, despite how easy Uhura makes it look, or the fact that Worf can pretty much handle it with the touch of a button, is a big deal in space. I look over to Scully, but she seems unfazed.

"What brings you to Washington?" asks Scully.

"I have reason to believe there may be a saboteur at work inside NASA."

Ah. Oh dear. Ah. "Do you have evidence of sabotage?"

"I don't know. I may. Two weeks ago, a shuttle mission was scrubbed three seconds before lift off when an auxiliary power unit valve malfunctioned. If the flight had not been aborted, there was a great chance the liquid fuel system and the Orbiter would have exploded on the launch pad." This would be bad. Check. Although we've established that I do enjoy explosions.

She continues, "This was sent to me in the mail." She opens her briefcase and pulls out what looks like an x-ray. "It's a material analysis that shows deep grooved scoring marks inside this APU valve. Marks that could have caused a malfunction." She's holding the x-ray up while she talks, and I can see what I think are lines on the valve thingy, but I have no idea what they mean, really.

"Evidence of tampering?" I ask.

"That's what it looks like, but... according to the person who gave me your names you have expertise in unexplained phenomena, and what's unexplainable is how and when anybody could have done it."

Gotcha, but Scully doesn't. Shuttle parts are made to withstand really really hot things. Like the launch pad with the big explosion. I can't imagine it's easy to damage. "How do you mean?" she asks.

I understand enough to get the gist of why this is impossible, but I realize I should hear this explanation too, because Michelle knows this way more than I do.

"The valve is made of ferrocarbon Titanium. To score, that material would take extreme temperatures : launch pad temperatures. If anyone at NASA were to take a look at that analysis, they would say that it would be impossible for anyone to do that type of damage undetected."

"Do you have any idea who may have sent that to you?" Scully asks.

"No. No idea. But I can tell you that the official analysis of the malfunction was simple mechanical failure."

Now that doesn't seem right. "Does anybody share your suspicions?"

"If they do, they're not talking to the FBI. I believe in the space program. I believe in the people who run it, but there's another launch window tomorrow and my reasons may sound selfish, but my fiancee is a shuttle commander on that mission."

It does sound selfish. But we can't let anything happen – not just national security and us being FBI, it's that the space program, SETI, and the like are some of the few government ventures I can actually get behind.

So we're going to Houston.

I look at Scully and she looks at me.

And then she sighs and pulls out her cell and walks away, I hear her say, "Hi, Ethan."

I turn back to Michelle. "We're going to look into this."

She relaxes a bit, smiles. "Thank you, Mr. Mulder."

I shake my head. "It's just Mulder," I tell her, a fact I can't get my own mother to wrap her mind around.

XXXXX

So we dutifully fly to Houston the next morning. While we're in the air, Scully starts up about Ethan.

"We'd just met up again, no big deal, made plans for one dinner, and he's acting like my having to cancel is ruining his life. We've never even really been exculsive! He's just a guy I go out with sometimes! Not even in the last year, not that much!"

I bite my tongue. Hard. I'd like to tell her that Ethan obviously wants to make things more serious with her, and she should let him, but how can I say that when her dinner plans got ruined before she even had one more date with the man, and he obviously can't handle it. She's a big girl – this is her choice, and she needs to live with it. And he needs to let her do that if he wants to be with her.

That's what I want to tell Scully.

"I dunno, Scully, it sounds like you're upsetting his plans," I say.

"Upsetting his plans? I know I'm upsetting his plans, it's not my fault, you're the one who had to call me in."

I should have left my tongue bit.

XXXXX

She's still annoyed when we land, but still rents the car and we drive over to NASA. Seriously, I love being in the FBI. Colonel Belt is still running things here, _which means I get to meet him_. Meet! Him! Me!

Meet him!

And the treatment! We're FBI! They don't just send you to see the Colonel, they give you a ride in this little golf cart thingy. "Why would somebody want to sabotage the Space Shuttle?" asks Scully.

Which has been bugging me too.

So my answer is a big bunch of B.S. There have been no threats, so it's probably not terrorism. "Well, if you were a terrorist, there probably isn't a more potent symbol of American progress and prosperity. And if you're an opponent of big science, NASA itself represents a vast money trench that exists outside the crucible and debate of the democratic process." We are rolling past offices, and labs, and what the floor has little traffic lines on it. "And of course there are those futurists who believe the Space Shuttle is a rusty old bucket that should be mothballed. A dinosaur spacecraft built in the 70's by scientists setting their sights on space in an ever declining scale."

"And we thought we could rest easy with the fall of the Soviet Union."

Silly woman. But I'm kind of warming to my topic. "Not to mention certain fringe elements who accuse our government itself of space sabotage. The failure of the Hubble Telescope and the Mars Observer are directly connected to a conspiracy to deny us evidence."

"Evidence of what?"

Please! "Alien civilizations." Does she know me at all?

"Oh, of course." She's pretending to be surprised now. We keep driving, past a countdown clock (10:45:26) and eventually they drop us off in a hallway full of framed posters of previous missions, and a security guard escorts us to the colonel's office. There's a picture of Gemini 8. I love Gemini 8, mostly because the rumor is they made contact with aliens. Never confirmed.

"Wow, look at that – Gemini 8."

"What?"

Explanation time. "Well, the man we're gonna see? Colonel Marcus Aurelius Belt nearly died on that mission. Had to make an emergency landing right in the middle of the Pacific Ocean." Not as tense as some others but still.

"You remember all that stuff?"

She knows the name of every bone in the human body. "You never wanted to be an astronaut when you were a kid, Scully?"

"Guess I missed that phase." The clock on the wall says ten hours and thirty nine minutes till launch.

"Come in." She must have knocked. How can I have missed that? Be cool, Mulder. Be cool. Calm. Professional. Don't forget – sabotage, bad. Fanatic drooling, also bad. FBI career, good.

"Col. Belt, I'm Special Agent Dana Scully." she says, shaking his hand, and this is..."

She's gonna introduce me! I"m gonna meet Colonel Belt! "Colonel Belt. Fox Mulder." I hold out my hand and he shakes it. "I'm a big fan. It's an honor to meet you. Y-you were a big hero to me when I was a kid." Not geeky, not at all...

"Thank you."

"I-I stayed up all night when I was 14 to watch your space walk."

Too much, Mulder.

Now he seems uncomfortable. "Well, now it's like a stroll around the block." We all take a seat. "So... how can I help you?"

"This found its way to the FBI," says Scully, handing him the picture. "Do you recognize it?"

He holds it up to the light pouring in the window. "Sure, it's an auxiliary power unit valve." He drops it on his desk.

"Do you have any reason to believe that the damage done to it was in an effort to sabotage the Space Shuttle Program?"

"No."

"Do you have any reason to suspect sabotage at all?"

"No reason whatsoever. And if you have any respect for this program and for the people who have devoted their lives to it, you'll be careful to whom you make those accusations." Now we've gone and pissed him off. I can't help squirming.

"Looking at this evidence, sir, would you consider postponing the shuttle flight until a full investigation could be conducted?"

Nice, Scully.

He sighs. Deeply. We're annoying him. "Look, I don't know where you got this specious artifact, but I can assure you every precaution has been taken to rectify the problem. We've been waiting two weeks for a window to initiate this mission. We've got a payload to deliver." Whatever that is, exactly, we are not cleared to know. Spy satellite?

"Colonel Belt, has an internal investigation ever been done on this matter?"

"The part you have here, has been installed, inspected, and designed by over 100 highly trained technicians. With the security measures we take, it would be virtually impossible for one man working by himself, or two or four men, to do what you are suggesting. I can assure you there isn't a person in this facility that doesn't want to see that shuttle go into space, complete its mission, and come back like winged victory herself. And in about ten hours, God willing, you're gonna see just that."

Pretty certain, then. I'm still squirming, though.

_But not an answer_, a tiny voice in my head says.

Whatever. It's Colonel Belt.

We stand up. "Do you think there would be a problem with us watching lift off from Mission Control?" I ask, loving that it's not an unreasonable request.

"Well, being that you'd probably go over my head anyway, please, be my guest."

Yeah, we could. Would we? Well, it would be a cool thing to see. "It was an honor, sir," I tell him, shaking his hand. Wow.

Scully shakes his hand too. "Thank you." She follows me out. Where the old snark returns. "Didn't you want to get his autograph?" she asks, once the door is closed behind us.

XXXXX

We are FBI. This is a government facility. It's a given that we're gonna poke around.

Sadly, at NASA, there is no place to go to get a directory so you just have to wander around until you find a lab that isn't a clean room. Luckily, Scully is able to charm pretty much anyone (except me) and we make it to the Auxiliary Power Unit Valve Lab (known in the vernacular as something else, but whatever) to talk to someone who might give us a better answer within a couple of hours of meeting the Colonel. All the while, in the back of my mind, a little voice won't shut up.

_He's hiding something._

Shut up.

_He didn't answer your questions._

Shut up.

_He's using your hero worship to hide._

Shut up.

"What can you tell us about this?" asks Scully, handing the Head Egghead the X-ray or whatever of the Valve Thingy.

"Where did you say you got this?" he asks, squinting at the picture.

"It came to us anonymously," she replies.

"Well this is an APU valve all right, but this doesn't make sense."

"What doesn't make sense?" _I told you so! I told you so!_ Says the voice. I hate the voice.

"This scoring here. This valve is made out of ferrocarbon titanium. Its -" Wait a damn minute. Who else is gonna order this test in the first place?

"You didn't order the analysis?" I ask him.

"No, I've never seen this before. But we're on outside contract to NASA. They may have ordered it." it's routine. Breathe.

_It's not routine._

Shut up, stupid voice.

"But as a matter of course wouldn't you order a material analysis if a part malfunctioned?" I ask.

"Every shuttle has flown with that same APU valve. We haven't had a problem. To do an analysis and redesign would delay the program for months, not to mention the cost."

"Is it conceivable that in order to avoid these delays, the program is being pushed ahead without proper safety precaution?" Sometimes I hate her. You don't just accuse Colonel Belt of-

_He's not an astronaut anymore, he's a bureaucrat._

Be quiet, silly voice.

"Look, there are about 17,000 things that can go wrong with the shuttle, and about 17,000 people who make sure they don't."

"And who makes the final determination as to its safety?"

Oh dear.

_He's hiding something._

"Oh we make a recommendation, but ultimately, the decision is Col Belt's."

We both thank him. But I don't feel it. Thankful. I don't feel thankful.

I follow Scully up the stairs, or maybe she follows me, I don't know anymore. "What do you think?" she asks.

"I can't believe how much faith we put in machines," I tell her.

"You think Col Belt knows more than he's saying? That he lied about his knowledge of a saboteur?"

No. I can't think that.

_Not yet._

Shut up, voice.

"I can't believe that Col Belt would endanger the lives of those astronauts knowing that something might go wrong. He was an astronaut himself."

"So you think this x-ray is bogus?"

Uh....

No. No, I don't.

Dammit.

"God, I hope so."

XXXXX

We can't stop the launch, and we can't even tell if there's something wrong with this shuttle. So we wait, kick back, hang out at NASA, take the tour, and generally wait for something to happen.

And eventually, it does.

"This is Shuttle Launch Control with T minus one minute 40 seconds and counting."

Oh, it's beautiful. My stomach is all wibbily. Who wouldn't be wibbily?

"OTC is go for orbiter access arm retract."  
I believe that means they're gonna reel in the bridge thingy that leads to the hatch.

"OTC, OBCC verified."

"Roger that, OBCC verified."

"Here we go," says Colonel Belt.

"This is Shuttle Launch Control with T minus one minute 30 and counting."

"Final purge sequence, main engine check."

So they've flushed all the fuel stuffs (cars aren't my thing, so shuttle engines are even less my thing) and the engine looks good.

"Copy purge sequence. Main engine check."

"Switching off Orbiter's ground supply. On board fuel cells check."

Power's working.

"Roger, OTC."

"Pick up terminal sequence, MPS."

No idea what this one is.

"Copy that. OTC to CDR, how do you read?"

"Loud and clear."

"CDR Houston, how do you read?"

That one is communications. Michelle answers.

"Loud and clear."

"Side hatch close out and white room configuration complete. Retracting Orbiter arm. All systems go for APU start."

That would be the prestart, basically. Warm the engine up.

"Go with APU start."

"PBSR power down and ready for launch. Transfer to internal power."

I'm not bouncing. I'm not. But I want to. Really badly.

"Transfer to internal power."

"Gimbaling of main engines complete. Aero surfaces in launch position."

Flaps. Check.

"MPDR assembled. Military recorder is running."

Covering our asses, check.

"Okay, copy."

"Oxygen vent hood retracted. External tank is at flight pressure. Ok CDR, lock your visors and initiate your O2 flow. Y'all have a good one."

"Roger that."

"Go for auto sequence start. Booster hydraulic units have started. Go for main engine start."

And this is where the voice kicks in.

_It could blow up. He's lying to you. This isn't safe._

But we have no proof, I tell the voice.

"T minus ten and counting."

_This one shouldn't launch._

Shut up.

"Nine..."

_He'll bury the evidence._

No he won't.

"Eight..."

_Something's wrong._

No it isn't.

"Seven..."

_Then why do they all look so nervous._

They do not.

"Six..."

_Yes they do. Look at Scully, she knows._

I can't help glancing at her, but she doesn't look nervous.

"Five..."

_Yes she does. You know she does._

Apprehensive. She looks apprehensive. Are you happy now?

"Four..."

_What if you're wrong?_

"Three... Two... One..."

_You could be._

"Zero. Ignition. We have liftoff of the shuttle Orbiter."

Everyone starts cheering, but I have to force myself to join in.  
"CDR Houston, bet y'all have never seen a more beautiful sight."

"Roger that, 10-4," says Michelle.

"Roger. Back to you. Lower throttle back. Main engine at 65%."

She turns and gives me a thumbs up. Everything's gonna be fine.

"Roger. Throttle at 110%."

"Go for SRB separation."

"Roger OTC."

We stay and watch the rest. Nothing goes wrong.

And the voice stays silent.

XXXXX

By the time we reach the hotel, I think I might have been worrying about nothing. I'm ready to go lie down, relax, watch that ridiculous show about some rapper named Will who lives with his rich uncle. "I have to admit, that fulfilled one of my boyhood fantasies," I tell Scully as we head for our hotel rooms.

"Yeah, it ranks right up there with getting a pony and learning how to braid my own hair."

Ha! I knew it. "Come on, Scully. You have to admit that was exciting. Mission control-" she smiles, and I playfully punch her arm "...countdown..." she's still smiling.

"Mulder!!" We turn, and it's all over. Michelle is here, and she is _not happy_. "Wait! Something's gone wrong."

No. Come _on._

_I told you. Didn't I tell you?_

Dammit.

"What happened?" asks Scully.

"Something's wrong with the shuttle. We had some trouble with the solid rocket boosters, but we were able to fix it. We changed watch, I went home to try to get some sleep. I got a phone call twenty minutes ago. Communication with the shuttle had gone down. Come on. We've got to get back to Houston."

XXXXX

We follow Michelle down a wet road in the night, trying to think of what we're gonna do, what's left to investigate. I mean, there isn't tons to go on, here.

None of the radio stations are working, so we have no news, just none.

We'll just have to wait until we get there. "They have a press blackout in effect," I tell her as she starts to get frustrated. "Chances are, the media doesn't know about it." Yet.

"Do you think this is sabotage?"

_Yes. _"I don't know. Things go wrong all the time."

"Yeah, but they usually fix them, right?"

She's like a small child, looking for reassurance, and I'm reminded, just for a second, of Sam. Dammit.

"Usually."

I see Michelle's car turn. "She's turning," says Scully. Suddenly her car just runs off the road and flips over into a ditch.

We jump out of our car as soon as we're somewhat stopped and run to help her. I can hear her screaming, and Scully calling her name. I kneel down by the door. "You all right?"

"I'm stuck!"

Okay. "Can you move?" Scully asks.

"Just get me out of here. I'm wedged in!" We move to the other side of the car, where it's easier to reach her.

"You all right?" I ask again.

"I'm wedged in!"

I reach into the car. "C'mere." But she's not budging. "Can you push with your legs?"

"Be careful," says Scully. Duh.

"Just get me out of here!" she wails. Wimp.

So much for careful. "Okay, all right. Come on." I pull her out, finally. Scully takes over.

"It's okay. Now don't try to move."

"Oh, I got to get back to Houston."

"What happened?" I ask her.

"I don't know. Something came at me in the fog, and the next thing I knew I was upside down."

Huh.

"Was it some kind of an animal?" Scully asks her.

"No. It had a face. It was... it was grotesque. I don't know what it was." I pull her up, feeling strangely protective. I even wrap my arm around her. I don't know why,exactly, but she could have died. Why? Who the hell would want to kill Michelle?

"You okay?" Scully asks.

"Yeah." She pauses. "We need to go. Can I, uh, hitch a ride?"

XXXXX

We make it in time to watch all hell break loose at Mission control.

"Orbiter, this is Houston. Do you copy?" someone is calling the shuttle as we enter.

"Your transmission is breaking up, Houston."

"What's happening?" asks Michelle.

"We have a malf in the OMS and RCF systems. They can't get the Orbiter into attitude rotation. Temperature in the cabin is approaching 103 degrees and they have downlink transmission problems... what happened to you?"

"I had an accident. What's their position?"

"Just over Eastern Africa."

"Try patching them into the Saychelles Tracking Station." She speaks into her headset. "Hang in there OTC."

I turn to Scully. She may not be following, after all. "The Orbiter maneuvering system has malfunctioned. Without it they can't rotate the shuttle. They need to rotate it away from the sun to keep the Orbiter cool."

"We've got a drop in cabin pressure, 21 kilopascals and declining."

"They're going to burn up," mutters Michelle.

"Where's Col. Belt?" I ask, not expecting an answer.

"He's on his way."

"Damn it! What happened when they went to back up?"

"Back up system failed to respond."

"Well, what about telemetry? Can we auto-activate their systems from down here?"

"We cannot auto-activate! It's like someone's interfering with the telemetry, screwing with the uplink communications from this end."

Not good. They're supposed to be able to fly it themselves if they have to. Just in case.

"Can you trace it?" The guy blinks and it's clear that he never thought there was actually a person actually doing what he just described.

"It'd have to be a digital processor."

"They'd have to be in the data banks."

_Finally,_ something I can actually do. _"_Where's that?"

I expect Michelle to stay put, but she must really love this guy. "Come on." Scully and I chuck our coats and follow her out of the room, down some hallways, and into another room full of computers. We enter with our weapons drawn and I think I hear something but then the lights go out.

Damn.

"Mulder?" I hear Scully whisper.

The lights come back on, dimmer. Emergency lights, but I can still see a shadow in the corner. "I'm a federal agent. Come on out of there." And he does, a pudgy geeky looking guy comes out and my gut says he's a dead end. But we have to ask anyway. "What are you doing in here?"

"I work here."

"Let me see your clearance," says Michelle.

He hands it over. "Sensor went off. There was a malfunction in one of the telemetry processors."

Michelle isn't done, though. "Did you find it?"

"No."

This is getting us nowhere. "Did you see anybody else in here?" He shakes his head and the lights come back on. Neat trick. "Okay, call security. I want a search of the premises. I don't want anybody coming in or out of this building who doesn't have proper clearance." Not that they would anyway.

_This is an inside job._

I hate you, voice.

XXXXX

When we get back to Mission Control, Colonel Belt is there taking charge. A few bursts of static are coming from the speakers and Belt is looking around for someone, but relaxes when he sees us. Or rather, Michelle. I doubt he cares about me and Scully. "Somebody's jamming our transmissions," Michelle tells him.

"Who do you mean?"

_How did he get here so quick when they were having trouble finding him?_

"Somebody or something is interfering with our ground communications and scrambling our uplink telemetry. The shuttle is not responding to override signals."

"I'm going to let them fly by wire. I'm cutting off telemetry."

_Don't let him take risks, he'll kill them._

I don't have the energy to make the voice shut up right now. I'm too tense. It's no good, like having a devil on my shoulder.

"It might not work. We might lose contact for good," Michelle reminds him.

"We have to give it a chance to work."

"We have to try to bring them down."

"We have to give them control of the ship, take a chance they'll be able to perform that rotation maneuver and deliver their payload."

_What is this payload? Why is it so important? Can't they do it later? Who is he really working for?_

"What if they can't? We could be stranding them up there."

Five seconds' pause, and then: "Abandon telemetry. Go to fly by wire mode."

I turn to Scully. "They're cutting off ground control to the Orbiter. The astronauts will be flying the shuttle all by themselves."

"Is it going to work?"

_No, it won't. He's gone corrupt and crooked and God only knows what else._

"OTC, this is Houston. How's the weather up there?"

"Sunny and warm Houston. What's the forecast?"

"OTC, we're going to fly by wire mode. We're going to abort ground control momentarily to see if you can bring those systems back up."

"Roger that, Houston. And leave the driving to us."

So damn cheerful.

_His boss is leading him to his death._

"David... you take care."

She really does love him.

"What just happened?" asks Scully. Normally I don't think of her as dense, but there you have it.

"They cut off contact with the shuttle," I remind her.

"Forty-five seconds. If they were able to execute they'd have done it by now," says Michelle. God this is tense.

"Standing by," says Belt.

"60 seconds."

The voice is strangely silent.

"Go to reestablish uplink communication."

"Video signal's failed on them."

Not good.

"OTC, this is Houston. Do you copy?" Nothing. "OTC , this is Houston. Where are you?"

"Howdy-do, Houston. Looks like we finally got this bird to fly right."

Thank God. We all join in the applause.

"OTC, do you hear that?

"Music to our ears."

"Cabin temperature stabilizing."

Thank God Thank God Thank God.

But then - "OTC, this is Mark Belt in Houston. How's the crew holding up?" He speaks hesitantly, like something's wrong. Like he's in pain.

"They're looking good, sir."

"Y'all get some rest. We'll get back to work at about 0700."

"Roger that, Houston."

"Let's get to work on that telemetry problem. We got a big day ahead of us."

_He doesn't really seem happy, does he?_

Shut up, voice.

There is a press conference an hour later, and we are still there. Michelle takes us into the back of the room, and we watch as everyone sets up their cameras. Belt gives an opening statement : "I know you have a lot of questions, and I'll get to them..."

I hear Scully whisper, "How did he know what he did was going to work?" to Michelle.

"He didn't. They could have died up there and there would have been nothing we could have done. They'd have been a ghost ship stuck in orbit."

"Why would he take that risk?" she whispers again.

"Bring those men back without delivering that payload? You're talking millions of wasted dollars. That's all Congress would need to shut down NASA."

This sucks.

"As of 2200 hours," Belt tells them, "the crew has been conducting on-board tests and tasks and resting up for their first full day in space tomorrow. I'm happy to say after a beautiful night launch the Shuttle Orbiter has performed magnificently."

"So much for your boyhood hero, Scully mutters as Michelle walks out looking disgusted.

The voice, however, remains silent.

I guess it figured I don't need it anymore.

XXXXXX

After the press conference, Scully is happy to just walk away and chat with some guy from the Washington Post – about which I'm _really_ not jealous, by the way – but I follow Colonel Belt out and down a hallway. He must know I'm there – I'm not really being quiet – but he doesn't stop moving.

And I need to know why.

So I call out to him. "Col. Belt? Col. Belt? Can I talk to you for a moment?"

And he turns and looks at me. "You want to know why I lied to them. You're asking yourself if this means I'd lie to you." I nod. "You know what it means to be an astronaut, sir? You risk your life every time you get into your spacecraft for nothing more than the good progress of mankind."

This is his defense? "You've got no argument from me, sir. You're true American heroes."

"Heroes? We used to make headlines when we did our job right. Now they bury them in the back of the paper. Name me two astronauts on the last shuttle mission." I can't and he knows it. "You make the front page today only if you screw up. They only know your name if you're the unlucky SOB sitting on 500 tons of dynamite. That's what they're really waiting for." He turns to leave.

"Sir, I have to ask. I'm sorry, it's my job." And I am sorry. But he's still being a jackass. "Do you think someone is sabotaging the shuttle?"

"My answer to you sir, will be to bring those men back safely to earth."

That's not an answer. Not at all.

* * *

November 16 – Tuesday – Rescue 911, 8 pm. Tuesday night movies, 9 pm Special Law & Order on NBC, 10 pm (Born Bad)

I take to hanging out in Mission Control the next day, waiting for something to happen. Anything. Colonel Belt is dirty and I know it and something is gonna happen.

I hate this.

But at least I'm getting to hang out in Mission Control in Freaking Houston!

Scully and Michelle and I are in a conference room up above, working through everything again and again and again and again – we don't know the whys, or the hows, or the who is helping hims if it even his him, because clearly, Colonel Belt can't just do this by himself - when suddenly one of the guys from downstaris busts in and whispers in Michelle's ear. The back of my neck starts tingling.

This cannot have a good ending.

Michelle mutters something back.

"Sort of a dull thump, like something bumped the ship. Got any ideas about that?" We all hear it this time – the mike is open - "There it is again," says one of the astronauts.

Nothing thumps in space.

"They've got an oxygen leak on board the Orbiter," the guy tells Michelle.

"Our O2 gauges are going all screwy, Houston."

Remember what Michelle said about unable to rescue, stranded in space, and no hope?

About that.

So we go back downstairs. "We got problems," says a geek. "We've got an O2 leak in the main tank."

So we've heard.

"What did they say happened?" Michelle asks.

"They don't know. They just said it was a thump."

"Stand by. We have an astronomer in Winnipeg who just spotted a gaseous cloud about a mile long trailing in our orbit," says some other geek.

"That's the liquid O2 leaking out into space," I tell Scully. And then, because I'm a freaking masochist, I add, "The exact same thing happened to Colonel Belt on an Apollo mission."

"How much time do they have?" Michelle, again.

"Well, that's hard to know without accurate telemetry data. I'll do the calculations, but it will just be a guesstimate."

"I need some answers, and where is Colonel Belt?"

"We can't find him and he was due here 90 minutes ago to begin payload deployment."

And the tingling is now running all down my spine.

"Uh, Houston?" says an astronaut, "We're up here kind of wondering when we have to start holding our breath."

Michelle somehow stays calm. "We're working on it OTC. I need those calculations and I need a worst case scenario."

"We don't know if one or both of the O2 tanks are damaged."

"Worst case scenario! And then I want someone to find Colonel Belt."

And I can do that! "We'll find Col. Belt." She looks relieved.

"They've got thirty minutes of back up oxygen. Beyond that, it's anybody's guess."

So we walk quickly.

"Why does she need Belt?"

"She doesn't know how serious the leak is."

"It's an oxygen leak. Even I can figure out what happens when you run out of oxygen."

"Colonel Belt's been up there in the same situation before. He'll know better than anybody else what to do." It's more than that. He's in charge. It's his responsibility. "He's got to make the decisions."

"Where the hell is he?" asks Scully.

I remember his address – it's in his personnel file, which we dutifully reviewed.

XXXXX

We found his apartment. But great minds think alike. He was willing to kill those men to deliver the payload. Why didn't he show up to do it?

Heart attack? Stroke? Carjacking?

Scully starts pounding on the door, and so do I.

"Colonel Belt? Colonel Belt!"

Nothing.

Disasters start flowing through my brain. Murder, torture, death, illness, worse.

"I'm going to go get security," says Scully.

But then he opens the door.

"Col. Belt. Are you all right?"

"Yeah. I wasn't feeling well."

Lie! But there's no time.

"They need you down at Mission Control, sir. There's been another accident."

"I'll be right back," he says, and shuts the door. I turn to Scully.

"Something's wrong," I tell her.

"You think?"

XXXXX

So we bring him back to mission control even though I am starting to feel this sinking sensation in my stomach – kind of like being on a roller coaster only without the coaster. Michelle is asking the shuttle about something to do with maneuvering and Belt jumps in and asks one of the techs how bad the leak is while my stomach ties itself in knots.

"We have no way to determine," Michelle responds to his question.

"OTC, What's the condensation, cabin."

"Windows are getting a little steamy." That would be CO2. Great.

"Carbon dioxide buildup," exposits Michelle.

"Okay, OTC. Everything's going to be fine. I want you to get in your spacesuits and depressurize your cabin, and then I want you to vent that CO2."

"Roger, Houston. And then what?" Michelle doesn't look happy.

"I want you to stay in your suits. And then I want you to prepare to use your emergency oxygen systems. And then I want you...to...deliver your payload." He has trouble getting the words out. His head is bowed, and I think he looks ashamed.

"Those are men up there!" cries Michelle. Her fiancee.

"You're out of line. You want to tell me how to do my job? I've been up there in that situation, Miss Generoo. There's more at risk here than your personal life. And if you can't accept that or operate effectively in the circumstances then maybe you'd better leave the decisions to people in this room who can." Michelle leaves the room and Scully follows her. So we'll let her clean up that mess I suppose. "OTC, do you copy?"

"Roger, Houston. We're waiting on those O2 calculations."

Oh, screw it. There's nothing I can do here anyway.

XXXXX

"Michelle!"

Scully is chasing her down a hallway and I follow the chicks.

"They're going to die."

"You don't know that," I tell her, because maybe she's right but I have to say it anyway.

"It's absolutely unconscionable putting that payload before those men's lives."

"I think she's right, Mulder. You saw him in there. He's losing it."

They're right and I know it.

"He saved their lives earlier."

"Did he? Or did he put their lives in unnecessary jeopardy? If he can't deliver that payload, Congress is going to kill the Space Program," Michelle says. They're always threatening that.

"And you think killing those astronauts isn't going to have the same effect?" I ask her.

"Look, Mulder. I think somebody must have sabotaged the space shuttle because too many things have gone wrong. I think Colonel Belt knows about it and he's known about it from the beginning," Scully says, surprising me. Since when does she get to be the conspiracy theorist? Isn't that my job?

"We have to stop him. We've got to pull them out of orbit." Something's wrong. He's not conspiring, he wouldn't. My instincts might have hero worship, but they can tell that he's not in some government conspiracy – our little chat in the hall about NASA, he wants what's best.

So the question becomes, what's best?

So I reach out and grab Michelle, and look her in the eyes. "He doesn't want those men to die."

"How do you know?"

"I know it. I'm sure of it." And I do, and I am.

"He's the one who put them up there."

There is that. "And he may be the only person who can get them down alive. Now how can you be certain that what he's doing isn't the right thing? That what he's doing isn't going to save their lives? Now I need access to you records... in a hurry." She nods, and I realize I'm still holding her arm. I let her go, and she leads us down the hall, toward our terrible fate.

XXXXX

"I need everything on the Hubble Telescope, the Mars Observer, the Shuttle Challenger, and the current Orbiter mission," I tell the geek sitting at the computer.

"You're talking about tens of thousands of documents."

Ah.

"What exactly are we looking for?" Scully asks.  
"X-rays, diagrams, schematics - - any proof that Belt knew about a sabotage." Even though he would have had to have a reason for telling if he didn't know.

"A needle in a haystack."

Yes, well, if she has a better idea...

The geek keeps scrolling through the files on his computer screen. He points to a column of numbers. "This refers to the filing cabinet where the file is located. These are all of them – I would say start at the top and see what happens.

So we start opening drawers, and pulling stuff out, dumping it on the floor in piles of papers and flipping through looking for anything that doesn't need an in-depth analysis. Besides, I doubt Belt buried the words "I'm guilty" in any of his reports.

Maybe fifteen minutes later, Scully pipes up. "Mulder, I found it. This is the same diagram that was sent to Michelle...ordered by Col. Belt. Which means he knew about the faulty valve."

I have another one. "This is from the Challenger. It's the O ring fitting that failed dated January 21, 1986. That's one week before the space shuttle blew up. And the analysis was ordered by Col. Belt."

"Are you saying he might have known about the Challenger defect?"

Well, yes. "Something weird is going on here, Scully."

"Col. Belt's collapsed." I turn and Michelle is there. I didn't even hear her come in.

Well that won't make this easier. "Where is he?"

"He's in his office."

XXXXX  
The office is empty.

"He was just here."

Until we hear the crying.

"Oh my God." Scully goes into Doctor mode.

"What's wrong with him?"

"Get a doctor," I tell her, even though we already have one.

"Help me. Help me," he pleads between gasps.

I don't know what to do, and I need answers. "How can we help you, Col.?"

"He's having some kind of a seizure, Mulder."

The paramedics arrive then. "It hurts! It's tearing me apart!"

"see if I can get a bus," One of them says as they walk him to a stretcher.

"I'm bringing that shuttle down," Michelle says.

"Nooooo! It's out there!"

The EMT tries to calm him. Good luck.

"Spacesuits!" He's still struggling.

"Strap him down," I tell them.

"Give him 10 milligrams of Diazepam," says Scully. But I need him to talk.

"No."

"He's going to hurt himself, Mulder."

I need him to talk. "He's trying to tell us something. Col. Belt." But his attention isn't really on me.

"Those men are up there and they're running out of oxygen."

Dammit, I know that.

"They don't have to die," he says.

I hold up a hand, and the talking stops. "Col. Belt, I want you to focus. Focus your breathing. Focus your pain." It's something I saw in a movie but it seems to work. "Right here."

"Blood pressure is 174 over 120," the EMT says.

I have, like, two seconds.

"Mulder, you're risking an anuerysm."

Will you, shut up, Scully?

"Focus." He stops wiggling. "Now you're focused. Right here. Now you're going to save those astronauts and you're going to tell me how to do it."

"The shuttle can't survive reentry."

"No, he's lying."

Thank you, Michelle. One more word from the peanut gallery and i'm going for the duct tape.

"How do you know it can't survive?"

"The fuselage...the fuselage is damaged. The silicone tiles are destroyed."

Oh dear.

"How does he know?" Michelle asks.

I have my suspicions."How has it been damaged?"

"I'm responsible."

"Did you sabotage the shuttle?"

"No, but I couldn't stop them. Nobody can stop them."

Whatthehell? "Stop who?"

"Pulse is 194." Well, that was more time than I thought at least.

"You're going to kill him, Mulder."

I am momentarily undaunted. "Stop who?"

"They don't want us to know. They don't want us to know."

"Who?"

"It came to me. It lives in me. Get it out. Help me. It's coming back." and then his face.... it changes. Kind of like something green is hovering over it. That's not a symptom of an anureysm i'm sure.

"That's the face I saw in the fog," says Michelle. People are stupid sometimes. Couldn't she have mentioned it was green? And flat? Jeez!

"We're losing him. Defib."

Oh not good.

"Here you go."

"Clear."

"Hit it."

I did this, and I mostly dont' even regret it. What does that say about me?

"We've just run out of oxygen. They've got exactly thirty minutes left in the emergency backup system." This from the guy in the door I didn't realize was there.

I just killed my hero. I just killed Colonel Belt.

"They're going to suffocate up there. I've got no choice but to bring them down. It's the only chance I've got," Michelle tells us as she leaves.

"Again."

"Okay, we got O2 standing by."

"Hold on. We've got vitals. We've got a pulse."

Okay. Didn't kill him. Go me. "We've got to get him to a hospital," says Scully.

Yeah, I know.

They load him onto a stretcher and send him out into the hallway, and he wakes up a bit. "They're bringing the shuttle down. You said the shuttle would burn up on reentry. Is there anything we can do to save it?"

"Change the trajectory."

Okay. "Change the trajectory to what?"

"Change the reentry trajectory to 35 degrees."

That I can do. Maybe. I glance at Scully and we both start running.

XXXXX

"T minus 35 seconds to ionosphere reentry."

"You've to change the reentry trajectory," I shout, running down the stairs.

"What?" yells some guy.

"You've got to change it to 35 degrees." Gosh, I hope it's not too late.

"T minus 30 seconds to ionosphere reentry."

"Colonel Belt- " I begin, but I know that's a lost cause.

"I can't," says Michelle.

"T minus 25 seconds."

"It's your only shot."

She shakes her head. "We...we...we'd have to change the landing site, we'd have to inform them before the blackout."

So any second now.

"15 seconds to blackout."

"I want to know what the weather conditions are in Albuquerque. Are we go for an emergency landing?"

"Weather in Albuquerque? Landing conditions go in Albuquerque."

"T minus five seconds to blackout."

"OTC, this is Houston. I want you to change your reentry trajectory to 35 degrees. You'll be landing at Kirtland Field in Albuquerque. Do you copy?"

"Ionosphere reentry. Temporary blackout in effect."

"Did they get that transmission?"

"Two minutes to reestablish."

Dammit.

"Damn it." She glances at the clock. "How much oxygen do we have?"

"16 minutes."

That's plenty.

"OTC, this is Houston. Come in, OTC."

Nothing.

"OTC, this is Houston. Come in OTC."

Nothing.

"Anything?"

The tech shakes his head.

"What's the point of their new reentry?"

"500 miles west of Hawaii."

"See if Hawaii can get me - " Michelle begins.

"Hawaii's picked the shuttle up on radar."

"They made it," says Scully.

"Not necessarily."

And the nail-biting begins again.

Michelle keeps trying. "OTC, this is Houston. Come in, OTC."

Nothing.

"OTC, this is Houston. Come in, OTC."

Nothing.

"Houston, this is OTC. You know a good place to eat in Albuquerque?"

Oh thank God.

Scully starts laughing next to me, and I believe in miracles a little more. Michelle hugs me and I can't help grinning.

"OTC, welcome home. Welcome home, OTC. You're looking real good," says a tech person.

"Yes!" cries some dude, and part of me wants to cry from the sheer joy of it. I forgot life could feel this good.

XXXXX

Michelle handles the press confrence.

"The Space Shuttle touched down today at 10:56 Central Standard Time. The Orbiter delivered it's payload after just thirteen orbits and returned to Earth...without incident." I know she doesn't like having to do it. But she has to. She has to lie.

They have to believe. Otherwise it's worthless.


	10. Fallen Angel

This story. Is not. Mine!

* * *

November 18 – 21

It is only the day after we get back from Houston, while I'm reading the paper about Puerto Rico not wanting to be a state after all, that Deep Throat approaches me in the park where we met Michelle. I don't see him coming, and I'm startled when he begins speaking.

"Don't be a cat, Mister Mulder."

"What?" is the most intelligent thing I can say.

"A cat, Mister Mulder, is so wrapped up in it's own business it fails to see what's coming... unless, of course, it's looking in the right direction." He pulls out a Walkman and turns on the radio, and I listen as some woman talks about a toxic train wreck in Townsend, Wisconsin.

"Then what happened out there if it wasn't a train wreck? I ask him.

"Mulder the continental United States is surrounded by an electronic fence that reaches 15,000 miles into space. We use it to track and monitor the 7,087 man-made objects that orbit the earth. Last night at 23-17 that fence was breached. This morning at 0100 Operation Falcon went into effect Led by Colonel Calvin Henderson-The Air Force's premiere reclamations expert."

Uh... "Reclamations?"

"During the cold war his job was to prevent technologies from downed US aircrafts from getting into Soviet hands."

Ah. That just clears that right up, doesn't it?

Oh, wait. I get it now. "He's part of a craft retrieval unit." As in UFO retrieval unit.

"Mm Hmm. Quick response. I'd say you have...24 Hours before the entire area is sanitized. After that it will be like nothing ever happened."

So I'll have to go.

And he turns and walks away.

"Wait!" I call after him, but I don't know what I'd ask, and he just keeps walking anyway.

So I go home and I pack, and book a ticket to Rhinelander, which is the closest city with an airport. I hang up the phone and realize I only booked one ticket.

For just a second, I think I should call back, I really should, and get Scully a ticket and take her with me, and maybe, just maybe, she'll keep me sane while I'm being interrogated by aliens.

And then I remember Ellens.

There isn't much left of that in my head. But I don't think it was particularly pleasant.

If I'm headed for that I don't want her along.

And if I'm not, I don't want her debunking me.

Because that would suck.

And there's aliens in Wisconsin.

But I know I should call, and I should book a second ticket. I don't call, though.

XXXXX

The plane lands around eight, but between getting a car and driving and getting lost and finding a motel, it's midnight before I am unpacking. I turn on the TV. "Local authorities still have no comment until the government investigation now under way is completed. Government officials remain vague about the toxic cargo that has caused the immediate evacuation of Townsend Wisconsin's 12,000 residents. Speculation here has centered on a shipment of toxic waste from a nuclear facility." They keep showing footage of the evacuation while I walk over to the bed and begin unpacking my duffel.

They keep reporting.

I pull out my gun. Perfect working order. Back in the holster, then.

Flashlight, check. Black clothing goes on, and I'm good to go. The reporter keeps interviewing paranoid townspeople cooped up in a gym, swapping rumors. They all sound nuts.

I drive my rental car out of town to the area conveniently marked on the map they displayed on the news. The military has wasted no time setting up camp, and I skirt the edge of the laser fence, hoping not to be caught this early. It's not easy, the adrenaline is about to kill me. I can hear people calling out to each other, but I can't make out what they're saying. I even find the main gate, not that it'll do me any good. Plenty of trucks going in, but I'm not exactly in uniform, am I?

And then I see my ticket in. A bunch of military types changing the tire on a truck. I wait until they're done, then I sneak up on the other side, crawl underneath, and grab onto the frame. Surprisingly easy. They pull onto the road, and all I have to do is hang on tight. Not as easy as Indiana Jones made it look, but I manage. They pull into camp, and I hear someone who sounds like he's in charge reprimanding the other lesser in charge person for being late. And then he tells them to get live rounds, as if I had any doubt they're looking for something. Now I know.

The soldiers get out of the truck, and I can see trees and no boots from my vantage point, so I sneak by a few guys standing around and run into the woods, hoping no one saw me. I think there would be more yelling if they had.

God, this is too easy.

I can hear them moving around in the woods, and I try to stay quiet. The woods become dark, not dark like the city, but really dark. This is such a bad idea. And I see a light, so I head toward it, and I know I should be trying to stay down, but sue me. I suck, okay? There is noise, and yelling, and then I see the lights. And the ship. They're wearing some sort of space rescue blanket suits and using some kind of spray on the area. I start snapping photos. Try to stay hidden, but this is really cool so I'm probably failing. There is a sharp point of something sticking out from the tarp. A twig snaps behind me and I turn to look-

BAM!

Not hidden enough.

XXXXX

I should have brought Scully with me. I know this.

I wake up in an interrogation room. Not good. There's a man there, and he is glaring, and God, does my head hurt. He has my camera, my beautiful camera, open and is holding my film up to the light.

"You just made the worst mistake of your life, Agent Mulder," he tells me. Damn, they know my name? I don't have my ID with me.

"I think you knocked out a filling."

"I'll see to it you that pay the price for putting my men at risk."

And how did I do that? He's exposing my film to light. Damn him. They need cameras that don't use film. Shouldn't computers be able to do that? "Since when does taking pictures put anyone's life at risk?"

"You violated a US government quarantine and thats a federal crime."

How is that an answer? And this isn't a quarantine, it's a manhunt. "That's a quarantine? Is that what you call this?"

"We're trying to contain an ecological disaster."

With live rounds? "Thats a lot of firepower just to protect mother nature." There is no point to being this defiant, except that it's kind of fun.

"I have my orders. And a license to execute them as a I see fit. I suggest you forget what you saw, what you think you saw for your own well being."

Right, talk and die. Got it. Thanks but no thanks. "You've got a downed craft in those woods, sir. And troops carrying live rounds ! We both know what's out there!" Why am I shouting? It hurts my head. And he's walking away.

He leaves the room without another word, and two seconds later some guards come in to escort me away.

I hope my memory isn't getting drained again.

XXXXX

They take me to the brig, which is kind of like a dog kennel, only my neighbor isn't a dog. "Are you MUFON or CUFOS?" he asks as soon as they're gone. He has long blond hair and a black baseball cap. Looks like a big nerd. Although I shouldn't throw stones, should I? "Do you mind if I sit down?" Do what, you want, buddy. It's your own cell. And I'll do what I want. "Let me guess you're with that new group-CSICOP, right?" I wonder what he'd say if I said FBI? Huh. "Say no more. You're a cautious man. Trust no one. Very wise. After what happened to JFK I understand completely." Oh dear, you're one of those. Again, I shouldn't throw stones. God, he's such a geek. Is this how Scully sees me? "Oh, let me introduce myself. My name is Max Fenig. I'm with the National Investigative Committee of Aerial Phenomenon...He turns his hat around, and it says NICAP. "NICAP" Cute. A cap that ends in CAP. "Pleased...pleased to make you're acquaintance. Wish we could shake on it, you know. Firm grip, look you right in the eye. You learn a lot about a guy that way." Wow can he talk. "Can I, uh, can I ask you a question?"

Finally. A word in edgewise. "Go ahead."

"Did you see anything? Did you get close? Me, I saw nothing." He raises his voice for the microphones. "I didn't see anything!" He lowers his voice again. "Nada, zip. Hundred yards past the road block they nailed me. I have no idea how they did it. I'm telling you its like the Roswell cover up all over again."

I have to admit, I'm curious. "What makes you so sure that something's out there?"

He laughs, and he stands up. "Same thing that makes you so sure?"

He is quiet after that, though. He sits down, and then he lies on his cot and is silent. For hours. I stretch out on mine too, and eventually I must have drifted off to sleep because – something squeaks and there's a bright light in my eyes. Something is moving, and it takes a minute to realize that it's just Scully coming in the door.

For about half a second she looks kinda sexy in that trench coat. And then she just looks pissed. "I didn't order room service," I tell her.

"This isn't funny, Mulder."

I sit up. "Did you meet Max?" I need a distraction. I knew I should have got another ticket.

"Who?"

"Max from NICAP." With the cap. I look over, surprised he's been silent. But he's gone. "Oh, they must have released him. Another intrepid soul in search of a close encounter."

"Is that what this is about?"

Why can't you understand, Scully? I have to know. How can I not? "What else?"

"Try explaining that to Section Chief McGrath. He stepped over Blevins ordering a full inquiry. With a recommendation...Mulder he wants to shut down the X-files. And he wants you out of the bureau."

Of course he does. I just got arrested by the military. He can't _not_ want me out of the bureau. **"**So what else is new?"

"I don't understand you Mulder. Why you're always defying protocol? Ignoring jurisdiction..."

Oh for crying out loud! "Because I know what I saw Scully. There weren't train tracks anywhere near that site. So how could it have been a derailed container?" It's not even on the TV map. Sloppy.

"Because it wasn't. What you saw was not a toxic spill. But it wasn't a UFO either."

Oh, here we go. "OK. I'm all ears. What was it? "It was a downed Libyan jet with a nuclear warhead." Okay, that's stupid. Libya doesn't even have _unofficial_ nuclear capability.

"Over US air space..," I point out, which is insane. Libya is in Africa. Africa!

"They'd been picking up low grade levels of radiation indicating that a plutonium casing may have cracked. So to avoid mass panic..."

Oh come on! "You really believe that story?"

"That story happens to be highly classified." She is pacing around my dog kennel of a cage now.

Well, it sucks. "A highly classified lie." I can hear a helicopter. Why the hell would they need a helicopter? "They're searching for someone Scully."

"If they're searching for anyone, its probably the pilot."

"You think they'd roll out all of this material for one Libyan fighter jock?" She doesn't answer. Damn straight. And then there's the other thing, which I may be over dramatizing, but the crash certainly _looked_ bad, and how the hell is she gonna prove me wrong? "Besides, no human pilot walked away from the wreckage I saw."

Close enough to true for government work.

"Well, maybe he ejected."

Sigh. "Maybe."

"I'm gonna get you out of here," she says, and then she leaves.

I can live with that.

XXXXX

They release me an hour later, and we get in the car. The town is small – it'll take less than five minutes to get to the motel from here, but she turns the other way. Risking a fight, I know, but I have to speak up.

"Scully, my motel is that way." I point.

She sighs, turns the car around, and we drive back the way we came. "Fine, you can pack and then we'll go home."

"I'm not going home," I tell her, mostly, apparently, in order to hear that nice squealing sound the brakes on her rental car make as she pulls into the parking lot.

"You can't be serious!"

"As long as we're here in beautiful downtown Townsend, why not?" I ask her, but I know I'm walking this teeny tiny filament of a fine line.

"Mulder, the hearing is tomorrow morning at ten o'clock."

And I can add. "That gives us 24 hours to investigate."

"My assignment is to bring you back, not to help you dig yourself in deeper."

Deeper shmeeper. I'm already in _deeeeep_. "'The Last Detail' starring Dana Scully."

We are at my door, and I open it and _God,_ I am not that much of a pig. And I didn't leave the phone off the hook. I didn't even touch the phone.

"What's going on?" asks Scully, who is the most dense person on the planet as far as I can tell.

"Looks like housekeeping hasn't been here yet."

Scully starts talking exactly as I hear a squeaking noise. "Who would..." I cut her off. "Shh..." There's a noise in my bathroom that sounds like a window opening. Stealthy. We both draw our guns and walk over to the door. The door isn't latched and we ease it open to find someone's legs sticking out of the window. Or in the window. Whichever is grammatically correct is what the legs are doing.

Anyway, I can see a head flopping around outside, and that head is wearing a black baseball cap and has long blond hair. "Max?"

"Get your hands up!" yells Scully (at her scariest, and that is very intimidating).

"Whoa. Don't shoot. Don't shoot." Max says as he starts crawling back in the window.

"Max?" I ask him. Even though I know it's him.

He stands there, looking sheepish, and pulls off his hat and clears his throat. Scully does not lower her gun, at least at first, and then she drops it as I guide Max into the bedroom and sit him on the bed. "My apologies. Forgive me please. I'm a curious man. I had to know..."

Know what? I liked this room! "Know what?"

"If it was really you."

If it was really me? Who the hell am I? "But you don't know me. Last night is the first time we've laid eyes on each other."

"Not true. We at NICAP have been following your career really closely. Ever since you became involved with the X-files."

Little known fact: The X-Files are classified. Not highly classified, but still. It's not like they put our travel arrangements in the newspaper. "Following my career? How?"

"Through the Freedom of Information Act. Your travel expenses are a matter of public record."

Or maybe they are. I wonder if the Gunmen are in on this. That would take a long, long, long time to make it happen. Tons and tons of work. Max glances at Scully and puts his cap back on, possibly trying to make a better impression. "So, this must be the enigmatic Agent Scully." He tries to get up, reaching for her, and that's kind of creepy so I shove him back on the bed.

"How did you recognize me?" I ask him.

"I saw your picture in a trade publication once. And of course I read your article in Omni about the Gulf Breeze sightings."

How the _hell_ did he know I did that? "I published that under a pseudonym." The FBI frowns on these sorts of things.

"M.F. Luder. I know. M.F. Luder is an anagram for F. Mulder. You really didn't think that would fool us did you?"

Us? "I didn't think anybody was paying attention," I tell him. I feel foolish. Of course these people would know – some of their I. Q.s have been enhanced, you know.

"Somebody's always paying attention, Mr. Mulder."

"A-mazing," I hear Scully whisper, but I ignore her.

"Amazing? Hardly. You want to see something amazing? Come with me," Max says, and he gets up and leaves the room so fast I can't stop him.

"Enigmatic* Dr. Scully," I mutter as I walk by her, following Max into the parking lot toward one of those trailers that looks like a metallic Twinkie, Scully's heels clacking behind me. We pause at the door while Max works the lock.

"This is my, uh...Right this way."

He lives in a metallic Twinkie. Great. That's gonna be easy to explain to Scully.

"Excuse the mess," he says as he starts digging around. "Gotta turn this off," he mutters at a speaker as he flips the switch. Scully starts poking around, doing her thing, which I doubt will end well for Max's credibility.

"Okay. Where's those, uh...They were right here. Oh, here they are." He picks up some photos. "The latest crop circle photos from Project Argus. Huh? Your opinion fact or fraud." For crying out loud man!

First of all, the project isn't even about photography, but radio astronomy. Second, Project Argus is run half by legitimate alien hunting scientists. That leaves half to be raving nuts.

"Fraud."

"How do you explain the anomalous blisters on the plants?"

Oh dear lord, it's like a one-man Star Trek convention. "Some unreported weathering effects common to wheat or a systematic reaction to the plant tissue to being lodged in one position."

"I see you've read the literature."

I have a photographic memory. I see it, I remember. "I try to keep up."

"What about the..."

Thank God he's not a skeptic, otherwise he'd be annoying. "Max!" he stops. "You said you had something to show us."

"Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah." He walks up to a bank of equipment, and Scully joins us. "Wolf Ear 2000. Did you ever hear of this?"

"Yeah. Wolf Industries supplied the CIA with all of its surveillance equipment," Scully supplies.

"State of the art, search and intercept. Up to 100 channels per second. Currently I'm jacked into local fire and police departments, cellular pathways, and when the weather's right sometimes even air traffic control from Whitmarsh Air Force Base."

Ah. I see where this could be going. "What have you got Max?"

"Mobile Unit Broadcast. In Scan Mode. Townsend Sheriff's department. Two nights ago."

He was here before the crash. Why? What the hell is going on and who is this guy? Max switches on the device, and a recording comes on. "We got a fire of county road D7. Two miles west of the canyon ridge intersection. Suggest we dispatch fire crews, over? This is Deputy Wright. Do you copy?"

"And this. 35 minutes later. Presumably from the fire crew. Reception got wiggy for some reason."

"This is unit 53. Man down. Request medivac. I said request medivac! You're breaking up! Very. Bad. VERY bad. Wait a second. What the hell? Charlie, we've got a situation here!"

The only one of these people I'm going to be able to try to find is this Deputy Wright. Maybe he saw something?

"Thanks," I tell Max. "I'll be back later." Scully mutters something behind me but I'm already out the door and halfway across the lot before she catches up.

"Mulder-"

"I want to find Deputy Wright," I tell her, and she doesn't fight me.

XXXXX

There are two Wrights in the phone book, and a quick call to the Sheriff's office reveals that J. Wright is the correct one. He was reported dead two nights ago, but no one's seen the body. It's a bit of a mystery, but the police don't have time to solve it so thery're glad the FBI is taking an interest. We can contact the widow at one of the evacuation centers, no idea which one, and would I please get off the line?

Sometimes this is too easy. I didn't even have to use charm.

XXXXX

Scully is sitting in the car when I leave my room, behind the wheel. "Where are we going, Mulder?"

I love her. It's like we're always on the same page.

"Do you know where the evacuation centers are?"

"Not really. I know two of the local high schools have been converted. Why?"

"Deputy Wright's family is in one of them. Think we can find out?" I climb into the car next to her, even though I'd really rather drive.

"Sure, I guess we should just follow the cars. Which way?"

"Right" I tell her. Wright, right. Whatever.

"I think that's country. Maybe straight ahead?"

I really don't know. "Do you have a map?"

"Yeah. In the glove box." I reach down to try to open it, but I can't seem to get it. The catch is stuck.

"It won't open."

She sighs and leans across me and then there's a flash of metal and a clicking noise. What the hell? Next thing I know I'm handcuffed to the door. "You're coming back to Washington."

"No, I'm not." I jiggle the handcuffs. Firm.

"Yes."

"Where's the key?" I ask.

"Not in the car."

Great. "Why?" Even though I know the answer. Her stupid career.

She doesn't bother. Just puts the car in drive.

XXXXX

Two hours later, we are still silent. I'm seething inside, and a little confused. What the hell her plan is, I don't know. How is she gonna get me on a plane without me making a scene? I don't know and I don't want to.

XXXXX

Half an hour after that, I can't take it anymore. Plus I'm hungry. "Scully, I promise, if I can find a way to do this without hurting your career, I will. Just please, let me go back." I didn't even realize I was gonna say that. I must be bored.

"No."

She speaks! "Why not?"

Sigh. "It's not about me or my career, Mulder."

Then why do this? "So what else could it be about? You have everything riding on this."

"I'd still be a doctor, Mulder. My father would be thrilled to see me leave the FBI. I love my job, but I could do something else. And they won't fire me if you don't report, just give me a reprimand. This is about you."

Huh? Who the crap cares about me? "What about me?"

She pulls the car over and turns to face me. "_Your_ career. _Your_ work. _Your_ mission. _You_ need the resources of the Bureau if you ever hope to find your sister. I can't just stand by and watch you fail in all that just because you think aliens crashed in the Big Woods, Mulder! You'd never forgive yourself for failing and I'd never forgive myself for letting you."

She is crying, I realize, and that scares me more than anything. "Scully," I begin, but I don't know what to say other than that.

"Damn it, Mulder!" she shouts, "why won't you _care_? I care more about your future than you do!"

Now I'm pissed. "You think I don't care? Really? I know where my sister is, Scully, or at least where she probably is – she's dead. There have been no clues! None! Nothing to make anyone believe she's alive. I can't give up – not yet – but I know she's gone. I know the most I'll ever find is a body, Scully. If that." Now I'm crying. "I want her to be in a just world, Scully. A world that makes sense. I remember that night, she just floated right out the window – that doesn't happen on it's own. Something took her. Something that might be here, now, if only we have the courage to find it."

She is staring into my eyes now, and she's not blinking.

"This is my mission, Scully. Right now it's my mission at the FBI. But I could do something else too."

For a second I think she's dropped my gaze, but then she puts the car in drive and makes a u-turn. We are going back.

XXXXX

What's weird to me is that she was trying to protect me. And I'm worried, because I don't feel a lot of need to protect her career – what happens if I have to return the favor? Her career matters to her, I know it does, no matter what she says. Otherwise, she wouldn't be so hell-bent on protecting mine.

This is what I'm thinking when we finally make it to the school gym where the Wrights are staying.

We make it in without a problem and find the Wrights easily enough. Mother and son. The kid looks so sad. "Mrs. Wright? Hi. I'm Fox Mulder. This is Dana Scully. We're from the FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions about your husband."

She looks absolutely furious. "He's dead. What else is there to know?" She takes her son's hand and walks away toward an empty pair of cots in the corner.

"I'm sorry about your husband," Scully tries.

"Oh, please."

"Mrs. Wright, we want to help you," she tries again.

"Then leave me alone."

This is not normal. She's gotten no answers, so why isn't she screaming to the sky for help? **"**Why won't you let us help you?"

"I don't know anything!" She looks at us, really looks, for the first time, and sits down on her cot. "Don't you understand? They won't even release the body so I can give him a proper burial. OK?"

Well, that's not right. Unless there's contamination of some kind. "The government can't do that. I'm sure if you appealed to..." begins Scully.

"No!"

"You're entitled to the truth."

"I can't afford the truth. They said that if I spoke to anyone, they would withhold my husband's pension. And I have a child to take care of." She glances at her son then, fiddling with his baseball glove.

People say they can't be bought, but the truth is that everyone has a price.

That's when the lights go out in the gym.

"Let's try the hospital," mutters Scully.

I can't see her so I don't bother nodding. "Thank you, Mrs. Wright," I say before I grab Scully's sleeve and we grope our way to the door.

XXXXX

The traffic lights are all nonfunctional so it takes a while, but within two hours we have made it to the hospital, which, blessedly, has a generator.

"I'm sorry, but unless you have a subpoena I can't discuss patient information."

Of course, the ER doctor – Oppenheim, it says on his coat – is not very cooperative. "Does that mean Jason Wright was your patient?" asks Scully.

"It means I have nothing more to say about this."

Time to play the guilt card.

"What about his wife and child, Doctor? Would you have anything to say to them?" Wow, I'm a jerk.

"Because whoever got to you also got to her. They must have some pretty big threats. What did they hold over your head? Your medical licence, the IRS?"

And now I'm even more of a jerk.

"I hate fascists," he mutters.

Does he mean me? "Excuse me?"

"The men who came in here. The way they pushed us all around."

"Dr. Oppenheim. Tell us about the deputy. You saw him that night, didn't you?"

"Yes. And three others from the fire crew. They were all DOA with 5th and 6th degree burns over 90 percent of their bodies. Although they weren't like any burns I've ever seen. And they took the bodies away before we could perform any pathologies."

I am reasonably sure that in my health class in high school, they told us there were only three degrees of burns.

"Did you note any cadaver acute heat rigor or heat stiffening?" asks Scully.

"Yes, actually there was quite a bit of heat inflection in the limbs. How do you know so much about it?"

She shrugs.

"Doctor, in your opinion, could those burns have been caused by ionizing radiation?" I ask. A commonality of many close encounters.

"Well, I hadn't thought...I suppose its possible. If the exposure was significantly intense." His pager beeps. "Excuse me."

I'd say it was intense.

"Lets say those men died from radiation exposure," says Scully, "Couldn't it have been from the cracked core of a nuclear warhead?"

"I've read about these kinds of burns, Scully." Well, radiation burns, anyway. No idea they had their own degrees.

"Yeah, so have I. In Hiroshima at Ground Zero."

Ah.

"I'm talking about close encounter mortalities. I have a stack of X-files recording the same clinical results."

"Mulder I don't claim to know all the answers, but if we don't make the OPR inquest by tomorrow morning, there may not be any more X-files."

She's right, of course.

And then we're surrounded by military men on stretchers. And there's a lot of moaning. And my old buddy Colonel Henderson. Oh joy of joys.

Scully follows them in to the emergency room, and I follow Scully. Doctor Oppenheim is checking on some poor burned guy on a stretcher, calling for an IV.

I turn to Henderson, because I really have nothing to lose at this point. "Tell us what happened out there?"

"Whatever happened, Mulder, it has nothing to do with you."

Okay, not, but it could if he'd let it.

"Wrong colonel. We both want the same thing. Only you want it dead. Can't you see that chasing it down like an animal you leave it no choice but to defend itself? How many more people have to die before you rethink your approach?"

"Listen to me. Cause I'm not wasting another breath on this. If you and your partner aren't out of here in 30 seconds ..."

Doctor Oppenheim gets defiant then. "Agent Scully stays right here. We're undermanned. She's a medical doctor. She stays." He turns to Scully. "If thats OK with you."

I guess he figured it out from her questions. "Of course, I..."

Henderson flushes. "Doctor, if you don't mind, you just take care of my men, and let me do my work, OK?"

"Outside this emergency room, you can do whatever you want, But in here I call the shots. Assuming of course, you want me to take care of your men."

Henderson thinks about that for a second, which just convinces me that he's a complete jerk. "Get this man out of my sight!" he finally yells, nodding toward me. I let myself be led out, mostly because no one's gonna give me answers with burn victims around.

XXXXX

I spend the first few hours in the parking lot, waiting for Scully and swinging through McDonald's every couple of hours for more coffee before I realize that's silly and duck back inside to call a cab – my phone died hours ago. Even avoiding my good buddy Calvin it only takes an hour or so before I can get to a phone without any goons seeing me, and when I talk to the cab company they tell me it's no good, they're restricted to medical emergencies and it's a five-hour wait for non-emergency.

I suppose someone could give Scully a ride home.

Probably.

I call the cab for five hours from now to pick up Dana Scully. I'm not a complete jerk.

XXXXX

When I get back, Max's trailer is dark, which seems odd since so much has happened. And I want to listen to Wright's call again, I suppose, and compare notes in general, and oh, hell, I'm intrigued, okay?

So I knock on the door. "Max?" There is no movement inside, which makes no sense. It's one room. "Hey, Max. Max?"

Nothing. So I walk in, which I think was a good idea because he's lying on the ground in convulsions. I know I'm not supposed to hold him still, but it's hard not to. The whole thing just seems so unnatural. Eventually he stops shaking. "Hey... Max."

"Who...who are you?"

Uh oh.

"Max.. Its me. Fox Mulder.. Are you OK?"

He nods. "What are you doing here?"

"You were having some kind of seizure," I tell him.

"Seizure? That's impossible."

"You were lying on the floor. Unconscious. Convulsing." Sounds possible to me.

"Thats odd. I haven't had an episode in seven years. Not since I went on medication."

At least it's not something totally sinister. "Lets get you to the hospital," I say, even though I totally know I'm not welcome there.

"No! I mean, I mean its not necessary."

Really? "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I've lived with epilepsy all my life. I'm not in any danger." Well then he's probably sure. I get him a glass of water. "Yeah. It started in South Dakota when I was ten. The doctor said I must have incurred a head injury. I don't remember hitting my head."

And immediately I think aliens. I'm pathetic. "And when you have a seizure, you have no memory of it?"

"As a kid I used to wake up in strange places with no idea where I was, or how I got there." He looks sleepy. "Sorry I... " he hands me the water glass - "I've got to get some sleep." I help him over to the bed and he curls up in a ball and that's when I see the pointed scar behind his ear.

XXXXX

I've seen the scar before, in X-Files, some of which I have with me. It's more about what I think Sam might have gone through than anything else, I suppose. Part of my unending plot to make myself insane. The files describe neurological disorders and misalignment of jaws due to brain surgery done through the jawbone for some reason. And oh dear God, Max really is an abductee. He has the symptoms, he fits the profile, and why the hell was he here to begin with?

Here before Wright died.

And that's when Scully gets back with a sigh.

"Rough night, huh?" I ask, because saying nothing would be rude.

"It was terrible. We lost all but two. And they're still in critical condition on their way to the burn unit at John's Hopkins." She looks devastated, exhausted, and not in the mood.

"So what do you think, Scully? What's going on out there?"

"I don't know. And under other circumstances, I would like to find out, but we have a plane to catch in just over an hour..." she heads for the door. Can't we get some time out of her doing ER duty? We'll never make it in an hour anyway unless we violate traffic laws.

"I want you to take a look at something first," I tell her, in view of these very important facts.

"What?" she asks, whirling around.

"Max. There's an unusual incision behind his left ear. I've seen this incision twice before. Two women. A thousand miles apart. No way of knowing each other. No relation. Both claim to have been abducted by aliens." And now I get to wait for the ax to fall.

"Are you saying Max Fenig is an abductee? Mulder, the man is taking powerful anti-psychotic drugs. I saw them in his RV."

For the epilepsy? "They're for his epilepsy."

"Not all of them. Dilantin is an anti-convulsant, but Mellaril is used exclusively to treat schizophrenia. More than likely, Max is delusional."

Which could also have something to do with the aliens. He never said he was abducted anyway. "You don't seem to understand Scully. Max doesn't believe he was abducted by aliens, I believe he was. Now could you at least take a look at the scar, and give me you medical opinion?"

She sighs. "Okay. You pack. I'll take a look at Max...on the way to the airport."

Fair.

XXXXX

It takes a few minutes to pack, and for Scully change, and then when we finally get over to the trailer she's not in a good mood, but this will only take a minute. "Come on, Mulder. Lets get this over with."

Oh dear.

I knock on the door, but there's no answer, so I open it, again. No one home. "Max!"

The scanner is on, though.

"Max?"

Nothing.

"Mulder look at this." She's looking at the pillow.

"What is that," I ask, looking at the red spot, "blood?"

And through the confusion, I hear the police scanner. "Repeat...patrol reporting unidentified trespass at the waterfront. This is Henderson. Move on target."

Max is an abductee. He was drawn here. Which means they control him, which means they can take him if they want to. Anytime.

"Let's go," I tell Scully.

"Yeah, we have to catch our flight," she tells me.

"No," I tell her, and run out of the trailer and toward the car.

"Mulder!"

Busted. "Come on."

"Where do you think you are going? Look, if we go to the airport right now, we might make the plane. Which would at least give you half a chance of defending yourself." Who cares?

But she cares. That's what it all boils down to I guess. She cares more than I do.

"Think about is Scully. Max is a gypsy. A nomad, right?"

"Yeah, so what?"

"So he intercepted Deputy Wright's last call to his dispatcher." Nothing. "Which means he was here in Townsend Wisconsin the night of the crash." Still nothing on her face. "Of all the places he could of been, he was right here." She still shows no reaction. "Don't you think thats more than a coincidence?" Finally, a tiny nod. "If Max was abducted that would go a long way to explaining his obsession. And if we've figured it out, you can be sure Colonel Henderson has as well. Do you have the keys?"

And she hands them over, without another word.

XXXXXX

We find the two bodies as soon as we get to the waterfront. They're still smoking.

"They're dead," says Scully. Duh

And then I hear a scream and we both run after it.

There's a warehouse that the screams seem to be coming from, and the door is open so we run inside. I can hear Max, begging for something that hurts to stop hurting.

"Max?"

"It hurts. It hurts."

"Max. Its all right," although I know it is definitely _not _ all right.

"It hurts. Stop it. No, no. It's me they..." Someone's helicopter flies over the building - "They're coming for me. Now I know...They're coming for me. That's why they're here."

Oh dear. I gesture toward the ceiling and Scully leaves the warehouse to find out who's coming and stop them. I grab Max. "Come on. Come on, Max."

"Why... Stop. Why?"

"I'm here to help you." But I don't really know how.

"I'm scared."

Me too. "I know."

"Don't let them take me." He's crying. God, this should bring back all sorts of flashbacks.

But it doesn't.

"I won't let them take you. Come on, Max. Come with me." I start to pull him toward the door.

"NO!"

I don't know what he sees, but whatever it is throws me across the room and when I stand up Max is gone and _God_ does my leg hurt. Damn!

"Max! Max!" I feel like a fool, limping around in here. "MAX!" And there's those flashbacks.

I found him.

He's floating ten feet off the ground in a field of white light, and oh, hell, who's not thinking tractor beam? The noise is amazing and Max is shaking and part of me just sees Sam floating out the window.

There's no way to even try to reach him.

And the light is brighter.

And then it is gone and something is blowing up behind me and Max is gone and his hat is on the floor. I limp over to it and pick it up.

"Where is he?" That was the dulcet tones of Calvin Henderson. I'm not in the mood.

"He's gone. They got to him first. They beat us Colonel."

"Arrest him...and keep looking."

Figures. Right back where I started.

XXXXX

Luckily, Scully manages to get me freed later that day, and we can fly home. Only about twelve hours late, which means that we have to wait until Monday for OPR, which is fine because Colonel Belt's funeral is Saturday.

I'm surprised when Scully shows up – she wasn't the guy's biggest fan – but we're both there early. It's the typical BS about Ashes to Ashes and whatnot, but I kind of feel like it's for Max too. They're both victims in this insanity. Michelle is there with her fiance and it's weird to see them, less than a week later, like they're already part of another, better, saner world that I don't belong to, not really.

XXXXX

That night all about the TV and trying not to worry. I do at least finish writing my report and dutifully drive it over, and then it's all _Doctor Quinn, Medicine Woman. _Other than that slight hiccup, in which Sully (whose name is obnoxiously close to Scully, I note with a large amount of annoyance) confesses his love to Doctor Quinn and the whole city of Boston learns a valuable lesson. Barf. And a really irritating episode of _Walker, Texas Ranger_ in which Walker defends the honor of strippers by kicking bottles out of the hands of men who look like they're from another planet, which pretty much sums up my feelings about Texas.

My ankle is killing me. I've been limping around all weekend.

XXXXX

The next morning I drive over to the emergency room, because now my ankle's purple. Just a sprain, but they give me some crutches. Scully's gonna kill me for not taking better care of myself. Either that or she's gonna handcuff me and start dragging me to the hospital every week.

XXXXX

Scully goes first with OPR, in fact she's in when I get there, so I start reading the newspaper someone left and trying to wonder what she's saying. Bill Bixby died, I note in the back of my brain. He played _The Magician_. And they've cleaned up the toxic spill in Wisconsin. Good to know.

Scully comes out. Finally.

"Do you hear that sound Scully?" I ask her, before she can talk. I grab my crutches. "Hammer and nails. They're building a gallows in the town square." She's not smiling, and I think that was funny. Clearly she needs to work on her sense of humor. "Don't worry." She hands me the envelope I have, full of files that won't save me one bit. Good old Scully. "It was only a matter of time. I'm surprised I lasted this long."

I almost believe it myself.

"Good luck."

I wave a crutch at her. "I'll break a leg."

XXXXX

McGrath is there. He never leaves his office. I sit down, and he says (without even _looking_ at me), "Agent Mulder, you have been charged with failiure to comply with a Military operation as well as insubordination and misconduct. How do you respond to these allegations, Agent Mulder?"

I want to tell him to go fuck himself, but I know what Scully just did. She just put her career on the line. And she wouldn't have tried so hard to save mine if she didn't care about hers. "Over a dozen men lost their lives and you want me to respond to issues of protocol?" Jackass.

"You failed to obtain proper authorization for your actions."

This is gonna be lame. "Because I knew it wouldn't be forthcoming."

"You also violated a federal quarantine..."

Now I'm being rude. "A cover up was underway!" I yell

"...exposing yourself and possibly others to toxic contamination."

How stupid do I look? "Oh, toxic contamination? Are we back in that? You read my report, explain the disappearance of Max Fenig."

"Your report is not the subject of this inquiry..." then why did I write it?

"I have further evidence to support my conclusions - X-rays taken while Mr. Fenig was institutionalized show an object lodged in his cerebellum -" I wave the envelope but I hope they don't open it because it's just my own notes based on phone conversations I had this morning with his doctor.

"That is irrelevant Agent Mulder."

I'm really annoyed now. "The man was abducted. We all know it. Everybody in this room knows it." Maybe.

"Colonel Henderson's written testimony states that Fenig's body was found two hours later in a cargo container."

Bullshit. Max is alive. Maybe. "Then what can I say?" I stand up. I'm done. At least now the blame's off Scully. "How can I disprove lies that are stamped with an official seal?"

"That will be all Mr. Mulder."

Oh, now it's time. I get to make a speech! Captain Picard does it, why shouldn't I? "You can deny all the things I've seen. All the things I've discovered. But not for much longer. Because too many others know what's happening out there. And no one. No government agency has jurisdiction over the truth." I hobble out of the room.

I am so going to get fired tomorrow.

XXXXX

When I report to work the next day, Scully is there, but there is no summons. No message. No pink slip. Nothing at all.

Just the job.


	11. Eve

Sung to the tune of the X-files theme:

The X-Files is a show,

With music by Mark Snow.

I didn't write this show.

I do not own this show.

* * *

November 22 – 25

Scully is the one who finds the next case that day, while I'm pretending not to limp around. She saw something on the news and had the slides and crime scene reports messengered to us overnight. She even put the slides in the slide projector.

She's getting good at this.

The slides are pretty gruesome, I admit it. That guy is _pale_.

"Death by hypovolaemia. 75% blood loss. That's over _4 liters of blood_," she quotes me while we're looking at the crime scene slides.

Now the thing you have to understand about the FBI is that while the cops can request us they rarely do. We sort of involve ourselves. So when we show up in whatever town this came from, we won't get a warm welcome and my leg hurts, but God is this guy pale.

"I'd say the man was running on empty," I quip, just to see her get annoyed.

Scully keeps lecturing while I get up and pull out my cattle mutilations file. "The man's daughter, 8 years old... was away from his side for no more than 10 minutes. She doesn't remember anything, there was no trace evidence to be found at the crime scene."

Pretty good. "Any evidence would have be washed away by yesterday's rain," I tell her, since it did, indeed, rain.

Scully never does the briefings. This is kind of fun.

"Oh, there were two small puncture wounds in the jugular." She shows me the picture – of the neck. Wow.

"Are you at all familiar with the phenomena of cattle mutilations?" I walk over to the projector and put on the fun slides – _my _slides. "Since 1967, over 34 states have reported unsolved cases of cattle mutilations. Trace evidence is remarkably similar. Incision marks of surgical precision. The area around the mouth and often the sexual organs have been removed. There's a substantial degree of blood loss but not a trace of blood at the scene." And that is the only thing, as much as it pains me to admit it, that these two cases have in common.

"How could that be?" she asks. Boy will she feel dumb.

I look her right in the eyes. "Exsanguination. If you were to stick a needle into the jugular of any living creature, the heart itself would act as a pump. These animals have had their jugulars punctured the same as the man in Greenwich, CT. Although this is the first time I've ever seen it on a human being." And that's the weird part – this doesn't really fit the pattern. But what the hell, maybe it's a new pattern? Either way, it's weird.

"But there was no sign of a struggle. How could a man just sit through a blood letting?"

"The ME found traces of digitalis, a South American plant that can be used as a paralytic drug," I tell her. She's not the only one who read the file.

She scans the folder I handed her. "Wait a minute. These X-Files indicate UFO related phenomena. Often there are related sightings in the sky near the incidences, along with surface burns..."

She's gonna say we don't have any of this – and she's right. Except for the girl not remembering anything, which coming from and eight-year-old might be a clue in itself. "Witnesses often relate time loss. We've seen this in abduction cases," I remind her, even though that annoying nine minutes is something I try not to bring up. "That might explain why the girl can't remember anything."

"Mulder, why would alien beings travel light years to Earth in order to play doctor on cattle?"

Didn't she go to middle school? Or watch E.T? "For the same reason we cut up frogs and monkeys," I tell her, backing toward the screen to point at the holes in Joel's neck, now being prominently displayed. "Besides, they seem to have stepped up their interest."

XXXXX

Scully is still a nervous flier, and it's never an end of fun to mess with her. This time I limp back from the bathroom and sit down.

"Hey," I whisper.

She looks up from her book. "What?"

"I heard a stewardess talking to another stewardess back there – what does an altimiter do again?" This was too much fun to think of.

Silence, for three seconds. "Why?"

"She said it wasn't working," I tell her, and watch her go pale.

XXXXX

It is late afternoon when we arrive in Greenwich but Teena – the little girl - is in a Social Services facility that used to be a house pending foster placement. We are met by a social worker who lets us in only after checking our ID and expresses her concern that we'll upset Teena exactly once before telling us, "Her mother passed away from ovarian cancer two years ago. There's no other family. We'll keep Teena here until we can place her with a foster family."

Not a happy outlook then. "Has she spoken about it?" I ask.

"No. Not a word."

It's a long shot the first night, but - "Any nightmares?"

"No. At least, not that I know of."

We peek in the window on her door. She's sitting on the bed in a really boring room. They could have at least brought some of her things. "Can we talk to her now?" asks Scully. The social worker nods, so she knocks on the door and we open it. Scully sits down on the bed and I take a chair and hope Scully being a woman will help calm the kid down.

"Teena?" She gets right in the kid's face, which I know is something I always hated when I was a kid. "These are the people we talked about. This is Miss Scully and Mr. Mulder. Do you think you could talk to them?" asks the social worker in a sugary kind of voice.

Teena nods, so the social worker leaves. I wish she'd stick around. Whatever. Scully takes the lead, thank goodness. "Hi. I know you must be feeling really sad right now. And scared. But we want to find out what happened so we can help stop whoever hurt your daddy, Okay?" asks Scully, getting no response to the rest of it. Teena nods. "Okay. Did you ever see any strangers with your daddy at home?"

She shakes her head. I love kids – yes or no. No equivocating, no subterfuge.

"Did you ever see... anyone yell at your daddy or your daddy yell at them?"

"No."

A word! Not even hesitant. Firmly spoken.

"Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt your daddy?"

"No."

How do you win kids over again? Oh, yeah, she's holding a bunny. "Nice bunny, Teena." Yeah, I got nothing else. She gives it a hug. "Can we talk about what happened that day? About what happened in the back yard?"

She nods.

"Yeah?" I try to draw on an FBI agent named Phil Taylor – he was my favorite interrogator. " Do you remember... any strange sounds or lights or anything like that?" Any questions about things in the sky will indulge the Wrath of Scully.

She shakes her head at first, and then she stops shaking her head, and it's like she's thinking of something. And then... "There was Red Lightening."

Scully twitches. She actually twitches. And I didn't lead her at all. Take that! "Can you tell me more about the Red Lightening?"

"I can't remember... it all went dark." For nine minutes, perchance?

Now, more questions to appease the Wrath of Scully, make sure my bases are covered. "Had you ever seen anything like that before?"

She nods. Holy Crap – multiple abductee?

"Yeah? When?"

"The men from the clouds, they were after my dad."

This is almost orgasmic. The men from the clouds, unprompted, from a kid, with Scully sitting right there.

And then Scully's phone rings.

"Scully..." a pause, "Where?"

"Why were these men after your Dad?"

"They wanted to exsanguinate him."

What the crap? Where does an eight-year-old learn that word? "Mulder..." Scully sounds serious, and I stand up and join her. "There's been another one," she whispers, and some dark horrible part of me jumps for joy.

Holy crap. Serial exanguinations by men from the clouds? My life's work is vindicated.

XXXXX

Doug Reardon even has a swing set, just like the Simmons guy. How perfect is that? "It's like looking at a mirror image," I can't help saying, when we finally make it to San Francisco and have a good look at the house and yard. Scully, as always, ignores this while reading the file on the murder.

"The victim, Doug Reardon, was married with one daughter. Cause of death, hypovilemia. Mulder, this is crazy. They also found traces of the poison digitalis."

Again. Wow. And not released to the media. "Puncture wounds?"

"Ah... yes. On the jugular. Time of death was estimated at 2:30 p.m. Same day, only three hours earlier than the Simmons murder."

Actually not. "That's Pacific standard time. That makes it the exact same moment." Huh.

"It appears we have two serial killers working in tandem." Because that, she can deal with.

"No. Serial killers rarely work in pairs. And when they do, they kill together not separately." I can say these things because I am the expert. Sad but true.

"Mulder, nothing beyond your leading questions to Teena Simmons substantiates a UFO mutilation theory."

That wasn't leading! "Was Reardon's daughter here when he was murdered?" I ask her.

"Yes... The police report states that she remembers nothing. Ah... she's with her mother and family in Sacramento."

This is too similar for words. "When will they be back?"

"Um..." she scans the report - "Tomorrow."

And then I'll be proven right. I feel like singing. "Even money... she'll remember Red Lightening." For now, though, I'm gonnna go back to the hotel and watch that show where Will Smith makes a fool of himself.

XXXXXX  
The call comes while we're driving back to Doug Reardon's home the next day. Teena has been kidnapped. Last night, I gather, because I'm driving while Scully takes the call. She hangs up just as we pull up to the curb and get out of the car.

"She was kidnaped from the Social Services Home around 11 p.m. last night. Looks like someone was afraid she might remember too much,' Scully is practically dancing with glee, I think.

"Someone or something, Scully." I reply, but I know that's not gonna be enough to really get a good argument going.

She sighs. "Connecticut State Troopers set up road blocks within a half an hour. Nothing."

"Maybe they weren't looking in the right direction." I point up for good measure.

"I told them to contact us in case they find her."

Yeah. That'll happen. People, as a rule, don't get found. I knock on the door and Teena freaking opens it. No kidding.

"Teena?" asks Scully.

"No."

Holy shit. "What's your name?" Scully asks, although this is actually making sick sense without It.

"Cindy Reardon."

Uh huh. "You live here, Cindy?"

"Ever since I was born, 8 years ago." Snarky kid.

"Cindy, who's at the door?" calls a voice. Female. A moment later she appears. "Hello," she says, squinting like she's trying to place us. Cops crawling all over, it's no wonder.

"Hi," says Scully, "I'm agent Scully, this is Agent Mulder with the FBI. Could we ask you a couple of questions?"

Scully, that list just expanded by a couple of dozen.

"Come on in," says Mrs. Reardon. "I'll make some tea."

She parks Cindy on the couch in front of the TV and bustles into the kitchen. When she's gone, Cindy changes the TV from cartoons to a news conference. Weird kid. Her mom comes back a minute later with some mugs.

"Cindy really is a beautiful little girl, Mrs. Reardon," I tell her, wondering how exactly to spill these beans and what, indeed, these beans even are.

"Doug and I wanted to spoil her. We wanted to protect her from everything horrible in the world. She was daddy's little girl." She starts crying.

"Is she an only child?" I ask. Might as well get the obvious out of the way.

Mrs. Reardon nods.

"May I ask... Was Cindy adopted?" asks Scully, _very gently_.

"No. I gave birth to her at San Rafael General."

I can tell Cindy's listening. Oh well. "So," continues Scully, "I assume you have all the proper documentation. Birth certificate..."

"Of course I do."

Now the less obvious. "Was she the only child delivered at that birth?"

"What the hell kind of question is that? Look, I have told the police everything I know."

If we're breaking out the profanity that 's not good. I pull out the picture of Teena and her father from the Simmons file. "Mrs. Reardon, have you ever seen this man before?"

"This... is this your suspect?" What must it look like to her?

That would make sense, wouldn't it? She thinks Teena in the picture is Cindy. And she's not even batting an eye. Whatever's going on, she's not part of it. It's a picture of the two of them, happy, smiling. "No."

"Did he do something to Cindy?" She's panicking.

And I know this panic and I know that I caused it and now I don't know what to say or how to say it. "No... he... he did... he didn't..." I start stammering like a fool.

"No. Mrs. Reardon," Scully rescuse me, "This is not your daughter. That girl's name is Teena Simmons. She lives 3,000 miles away in Greenwich, Connecticut. That man, her father, was killed in the same manner as your husband."

I notice, during all this, that Cindy is sitting still. Is she listening? Probably.

"Cindy is my daughter. I can show you videos of her birth. We tried for six years to become pregnant."

Ah.

A line from a song pops into my head: _I can see clearly now, the rain is gone_. "In vitro fertilization?"

Nod.

"At which clinic?" Please follow my reasoning, Scully.

"Luther Stapes Center. Down in San Francisco."

That, ladies and gentlemen, is a lead. "Thanks," I almost whisper.

"Thank you, Mrs. Reardon," says Scully. "We'll be in touch." People must hate us even more when we say that.

XXXXX

Once we get outside though, I know it's gonna get bad. "Do you still believe this is UFO related? Cindy Reardon didn't see Red Lightening."

Well, technically, we didn't ask her, did we?

"I don't know. The only thing similar about these girls _does_ seem to be their appearance."

"Well, there seems to be the _random_ possibility that two people can have an unrelated likeness."

Oh please! This is not, wow, they look alike. They are _identical_. And also... "Who both just happened to see their fathers exsanguinated. I'd like to get the odds on that in Vegas."

She nods, resigned, I think, to my insanity. We get into the car.

"The girls are the one and only link between identical murders," she says as I start the car.

"One girl was just abducted," I remind her. We should protect Cindy.

"Kidnaped."

Ha. "Potato, potahto."

But it's a good point. I stop the car.

"Where are you going?"

"The murders were committed by the same person or persons. Part of the pattern involves kidnaping the daughter." For crying out loud, she just said it herself.

"And you expect the pattern to continue."

Wow, I totally expected her to jump on that person or persons thing.

"I'm going to keep an eye on the girl. You check out the clinic. See if the Simmons were enrolled in the same fertility program."

I climb out of the car.

"Okay. I'll call the San Francisco bureau and get someone to relieve you."

Awesome. "Okay," I reply, and then I go to scare the crap out of a poor grieving widow.

XXXXX

Once the relief crew gets there, I get a cab back to the hotel and turn on the TV. Scully interrupts _Rescue 911_ right when some kid is saving his classmate from choking on a Jolly Rancher waving a videotape. "Mulder," she says, "I think I have something."

Since no one's kidnapped Cindy yet, we have nothing else. "Okay," I tell her, "show me." She pops the tape in my VCR.

Apparently it's a video describing the joys of reproduction via little petri dishes, narrated by Sally Kindrick, M.D. Or so says the title.

"Dr. Kindrick was the supervising physician in both the Reardon's and Simmons' IVF program. It seems she was experimenting at the clinic," says Scully, although why she needed a video to tell me that I do not know.

On the other hand, it would help us identify her if we see her. "Maybe now she's trying to erase the results?" I ask Scully.

We turn back to the screen, where Dr. Kindrick is prattling on about how the Luther Stapes Center "can't guarantee everyone's success, but with our scientific advances, a little luck, and a lot of hope... miracles can happen."

"Well, she must have had an accomplice to have done both murders," Scully mutters.

That means some other grudge, right? "So you think this is a vendetta that she and a colleague have against the Stapes Center?"

The phone rings, and Scully grabs it even though this is _my _ room. "Mulder, does this mean you've abandoned your UFO connection?" she asks as she picks up _my _phone. "Hello? Hello?" She hangs up. "Just a couple of clicks. Must be the wrong number."

The last time my phone clicked there was a van across the street. "I'll tell you what... I'm going to sleep on it and we'll talk about it in the morning." I guide her to the door, hoping she'll take the hint.

"Mulder, you're rushing me out of the room."

She took the hint. "No, I'm not."

"You got a girl coming over?"

This one's easy. She needs to work on her Mulder reading skills. "What's a girl?" I open the door. Actually, all there is _America's Most Wanted_ and then a rerun of _NYPD Blue_, none of which is crucial to my life, but what can you do? "No, I have... there's a movie I want to watch on TV. Sleep tight. See you in the morning."

She probably thinks I'm watching porn.

The phone rings again.

"Meet me at the pier," he says, and hangs up.

XXXXX

He is waiting at the pier, just as he said. In the bushes. "Are you certain she hasn't followed you?" he whispers.

"Yes." And I am – she always assumes I'll stay in the room. "What are you doing here?"

He comes out of the bushes. "I was hoping we could take in a Warriors game." No thanks. Nicks all the way. "Actually I was just in the neighborhood... Wondered if I had ever told you about the Lichfield Experiments."

He knows he hasn't. "No you haven't." So much he can tell me. Bastard.

"Well, it was the most _interesting_ project. Highest level of classification. All records have since been destroyed. And those who knew of it, denied knowledge of its existence." He breathes a lot, I notice. It existed during the height of the cold war. We got wind the Russians were fooling around with Eugenics. Rather primitively, I might add. Trying to crossbreed top scientists, athletes, you name it... to come up with the superior soldier. Naturally, we jumped on the bandwagon."

Ah. Which they called... "The Lichfield Experiment."

"A group of genetically controlled children. Raised and monitored on a compound in Lichfield. The boys were called Adam and the girls were called Eve. There's a woman you should see and I'll make sure that you can get in."

Into what? They can't still be there. "Where?"

"The Whiting Institute for the Criminally Insane," he says. Conveniently located nearby, outside Sacramento."

XXXXX

Scully grudgingly admits that it might be useful to follow his lead – he's done us good in the past, and I think he might be growing on her – and agrees to go with me. A quick check of the map later and we're on to the Whiting Institute, located under a closed industrial building in the outskirts of Sacramento. It seems crazy, I know, but if people escaped here they wouldn't even be able to tell where the city is from here. There's no clue, no direction. The buildings are so tall you can't see anything.

The front door is open and we are greeted by an armed guard at a desk. "Agents Mulder and Scully. We're here to see Eve 6," I tell him, which is the name on the paper he gave me.

"Deposit your firearms," she says, holding out a box. We do. "Sign for these." He gives us two little remote controls.

"What are those?" I ask him.

"Panic buttons." Terrific. "Can't let you inside without one."

They walk us through cages and corridors made of metal and mesh. This isn't a place where they help people. It's a place to hide them. Finally we stop at a door way down at the bottom and he hands us each a flashlight.

"Why the flashlights?" asks Scully.

"She screams and screams if we turn the over heads on. No one's ever gotten a good look at her."

Yay?

The door opens. "We'll be right outside," says the guard.

Great.

The inside is dark, so we turn the flashlights on. It smells in here – like someone's been living here for a long time and it never got any air. Which is true. The cell is dirty too, there's garbage and padded walls that look like they've seen better days.

At first I don't see her, and then I realize there's someone crouched in the corner in shackles. Her hair is matted and her teeth are yellowed. "Hello?" I ask, but I figure she's probably noticed we're there.

"Well it looks like you got what you're looking for... One of us at least."

What am I looking for? "Sally Kindrick..." mutters Scully. Oh.

"Cut off the chains... then we'll talk."

I think not. "They're probably there for a good reason."

"No. Bad reason. I paid too much attention to a guard. Bit into his eyeball." She giggles and gnashes her teeth. Gross. "I meant it as a sign of affection." She giggles again. "Are you going to give me an IQ test by any chance? I think I can top 265. We're very bright, we Eves. It runs in the family."

What the hell is this? "Where are the others? The other Adams and the Eves?"

"We're prone to suicide. All that's left is me. And Eve 7, she escaped early on. And Eve 8. She escaped 10 years later."

"Are you Sally Kindrick?" asks Scully, but I know she's not – they're too smart to be recaptured once they're out.

"That's not my name. But she is me and I am her and we are all together."

How does she know about Sally, I wonder, as she laughs. Are they psychically linked?

"Did you work for the Luther Stapes Center for Reproductive Medicine in 1985?" What's with the dumb questions Scully?

"1985? I've been tied up like this for two years and for what reason? For no reason, I did nothing. I'm just me. They made me. But did they suffer? No. No. I suffer. I suffer! They keep me alive for the Lichfield Project , they come in... they test me, they poke me... to see what went wrong. Sally knows what went wrong." Sally. That's Eve 7 then, if she was out and established in 1985 as an MD. Eve 6 points at us. "You and you. You have 46 chromosomes. The Adams and the Eves ... we have 56. We have extra chromosomes. Number 4, 5, 12, 16, and 22. This replication of chromosomes also produces additional genes. Heightened strength. Heightened intelligence."

And college comes back to me. Guess what else is in those chromosomes? "Heightened psychosis." I say to no one in particular.

"Saved the best for last." Scully must look doubtful because she tells me, "You don't believe me. I have proof. Look on the wall." She kicks her leg at the wall. "My family album."

I swing the light around, and I'm honestly not sure for a second what I'm seeing and then it hits me. There is a picture of all the Adams and Eves together. The eight Eves are Teena and Cindy.

Oh. My. God.

"My God," whispers Scully, "It's the girls."

"We were close," says Eve 6. "We were very close."

And then, because someone has to, I state what is now obvious. "Dr. Kindrick was using the clinic to carry on the Lichfield Experiment. She was cloning herself."

XXXXX

It's our turn for stakeout duty that night, once we're back, so we end up parked outside trying to keep ourselves entertained by working out theories of the case. "Suppose the killers are working for the Litchfield Experiment," says Scully, and the fathers were in on it. What if one or both of them were planning to talk?"

The fathers weren't in on it. How could they be? "If Eve 6 is right and there are two other Eves out there. That could account for the two identical murders occurring at exactly the same time. Sally Kindrick does have an accomplice," I tell her, and then to be dramatic, I add, "Herself."

"Until I heard that, I was beginning to suspect the girls."

They're too young. And they don't know about each other – how could they possibly collaborate on something like this? No way. "No. No, no, no. It seems the two remaining Eves are doing away with the parents in order to keep Teena and Cindy in the family." Scully pulls out the binoculars.

I can see Cindy at the window, looking out, and I wonder what she's doing up after midnight. "You suppose these girls have any idea of what they are?" asks Scully.

That I don't know, but they're eight. They must be starting to realize they're different now. "I hope not," is all I can say.

Cindy's light turns on. "Mulder, let's go," says Scully and we both get out of the car and run for the house.

Now I don't know about Scully but I'm mostly thinking one thing, which is basically _gotta get inside_. "I'll take the back," I tell her, because that's closest to the stairs.

Scully takes the front door, and I keep running. It's a bit like calling shotgun – you fight it out later, but for now, you just _go_. Sadly, I am only able to _go_ as far as the backyard before someone busts out the back door carrying Cindy, which leaves me no choice but to point my gun at them, which is utterly futile, because there's no way I'm gonna shoot while she's got the kid. **"**FBI. I'm armed." Eve whatever stops and looks at me at least. "Which one are you? Eve 7 or Eve 8?"

She points a gun at Cindy's head. Worse than I thought. "Drop it. You know I'm capable. Slow. Real slow." I know she's capable. I put my gun down and she runs. And then I pick it up to follow but she's already in a car and moving and nowhere near my car, of course, so I can't follow, but not for lack of trying on foot.

Scully is dealing with the police when I get back from chasing the car three blocks, showing her ID and doing what she's good at – making people like her. Mrs. Reardon is there, freaking out and wrapped in a blanket, and I sit down next to her after telling Scully what happened. She is strangely silent during this, quiet and scared. I can hear Scully telling the cops Sally Kendrick's name (good choice) height and weight, the fact that she may have a similar-looking accomplice (nice way to not say identical) and describing the car I described to her – which, since '93 Corollas are about as common as dirt, does me no good.

When she's done, she joins us, and Mrs. Reardon says, "What if she kills her?"

Unlikely. "Mrs. Reardon, the fact that Kindrick and her accomplice murdered the fathers and abducted the girls means they want them alive. I'm sure Cindy's alive and we'll find her."

Mrs. Reardon now starts crying and walks away. This is no good.

"And then what do we do?" asks Scully. She's right. What if whoever is following the Eves puts two and two together? Dammit!

XXXXX

I think the waiting is the worst part, but that's only because I'm impatient. Maybe Scully likes the waiting, who knows? She seems calm enough. Hours pass, and again and again new people come in and out of the house, some going up to Cindy's room and some staying downstairs. Mrs. Reardon has locked herself in her room and who's to blame her?

How much is too much?

Anyway, since it's an FBI case in conjunction with local authorities, if something happens that no one thinks is important, we get the call, which means my phone starts ringing about two hours in with crank callers. This at least passes the time.

Until the third hour.

When the phone rings again, with yet another transfer, I seriously consider pretending to go through a tunnel, but I just can't. Call me an old softie, but I'm still waiting for that call, and just in case... karma, you know?

"Hello," I tell the motel manager, "This is Agent Mulder with the FBI."

Here we go.

"Agent Mueller? Hello Agent Mueller. This is Jack Smith at the Port Reyes Motor Inn. I'm calling about that girl – Candy? Candy Renton?"

"Cindy Reardon?" I ask. Sigh.

"Yeah, her. I think she's in my motel. She pulled up in a car with a dark-haired woman, just like the TV said. I was cleaning the pool. Wouldn't have thought anything of it except she walked up to me and told me I should use chlorine to-" he pauses "-_irradiate_ the _dinoflagellates_ in the pool."

Oh my.

"Thank you, Mr. Smith," I tell him. "That's very helpful." And it is.

"Thank you, Mr. Munster," he replies, and I hear a click before I can correct him.

Scully is giving directions to one of the cops when I hang up. "That was a motel manager in Port Reyes that says he's got a guest that matches Sally Kindrick's description," I tell her.

"We just found the car at the airport."

"She might have ditched it," I point out, which isn't even unlikely. "The manager said this woman checked in with a little girl. That she leaves the hotel in the afternoon by herself, was gone all night and returns the next day with the little girl."

"Someone else could have picked up the little girl without the manager knowing about it. The place is crawling with vacationing families. There would be hundreds of little kids running around."

True. But - "No, he remembers this kid. She told him he should use chlorine to irradiate the dinoflagellates in the swimming pool. Does that sound like someone we know?"

She nods, then, and I know I'm not crazy. "That's it."

XXXXXX

The drive to Port Reyes takes seven hours, and that's speeding with sirens on, bypassing several tolls, and generally being incredibly reckless. But we make it, and the cops are sitting outside like we asked. That seemed like a really good idea – seven hours ago. Just watch.

After all, what good would a cop be against a superhuman?

That used to be a good idea.

What idiot said Port Reyes should be seven hours from San Diego anyway?

"I waited like you told me. No one's gotten out and no one's gotten in," he says, which at least tells me they're probably safe.

And then there's a noise – like a scrape.

"Get the back!" someone yells – maybe me, maybe not, and we all rush for the building.

Inside is a tragedy – and yet not. There is a woman – Sally Kindrick? - on the floor, dead. And then I hear her-

"They left,"

Scully stands from where she's checking for a pulse. "Who's they?"

"Her and another lady."

"We were all supposed to drink but we only pretended to drink it."

"They tried to poison us." They cling to each other.

"What did the other lady look like?" I ask, but I know the answer before they point to the lady on the floor.

"Eve 8. They were working together," I tell Scully. But she knows.

"It's all right. We'll take care of you. You're safe with us," she says, which is what you're supposed to tell kids in these situations.

The girls stay quiet, though, while the M.E. Comes and bags up the body, and while the cops stand around and confer. It's creepy. The Eves dressed them in matching red suits, and their staring is just... creepy.

What the hell is wrong with me? They're just little girls.

"Looks like the Eves mixed about 4 ounces of digitalis in each glass," says Scully, holding out one of the glasses. Charming.

"Their own mini Jonestown," I tell her, even though I know she figured that out. "Eve 6 said they were prone to suicide."

"It has a sweet flavor. It's probably not even perceptible in soda."

Lovely.

One of the police officers who was looking for Eve 8 comes back. "We're still searching the area but still no sign of the other suspect. We'll have an officer take the girls back."

"Ah, maybe it would be better if we took responsibility for the girls," I say, but I don't know why I said it.

"We could take them to get checked out by a doctor," says Scully. She doesn't even blink.

"Okay, whatever," says the cop, and I wonder if he's as unnerved as I am.

Someone has taken them outside, and Scully walks over, doing her maternal instinct thing. "We're going to take you back," she says.

"Back where? What's going to happen to Teena?" says one. That would be Cindy, then. I pretend not to hear – they don't want those answers. We just get them in the car, and they don't protest.

"They've already grown so attached. It's going to be hard when Teena gets placed in foster care," Scully says before we get in after them.

"Yeah." Something's not right.

XXXXX

After the hospital, where both girls are given a clean bill of health, we drive the girls home. It's still a long trip, and we're both tired, when -

"Agent Mulder, I have to go to the bathroom."

Sigh. Kids.

"Me too."

I find myself saying something I never thought I would say.

"Can you hold it?"

"I really need to go."

"I could use some caffeine," adds Scully.

Women. Ganging up on me. Fine. I pull into a truck stop and park. We walk up to the counter – thank God there's no line. "Hi. Where's your bathrooms?" I ask, sounding like a desperate father more than anything else.

"In the back. Let me get you the key." She hands it over and I order us each a soda while Scully takes the girls to the restroom, then hit the men's room myself, because, well, I might as well.

When I get out, one of the girls is at the table with all four drinks. "Those are the diet?" I ask.

"I think these are," she says, pointing to two of them.

I take a sip.

"Are you sure? These are really sweet." They are, too. Surypy.

"I know they are. I saw her pour it."

Oh, who really cares? "Okay."

Scully comes out with the other one. "Let's go."

"Come on," I tell the others, and then I have to go back and pay for the drinks (duh) and even let whichever one is with me pay for them. Scully is complaining about her drink being syrupy too. Must be something wrong with the system. But I don't have the keys.

"You didn't pick up my keys off the counter, did you?" I ask the kids.

They shake their heads.

Fine.

"All right. I'll be right back."

Sigh. I'm tired.

I go inside and grab the keys off the counter – and then I see the table.

The table where the kid had our drinks.

Something green.

Suddenly I'm awake.

I come running outside, and Scully is drinking form her poisoned soda. For crying out loud! They're little girls.

_Enhanced psychosis._

"SCULLY!"

"What?" I rush down the stairs.

"I just wanted to open the car door for you," I tell you, and ignore her look as I knock the drink out of her hand.

"Mulder..."

I bend down as I open the door, and whisper, "It's them, they poisoned them, let's just get them into the car."

But they're gone. They knew.

_Enhanced intelligence._

"I only had a sip," I say.

"We didn't drink enough to make us sick."

We pull out our guns.

They're little girls. They should be innocent. Dammit.

We wander through the truck stop, trying to find something and eventually I do hear their little feet pattering around, _just little girls_. And then, there they are. "SCULLY! I GOT THEM!" I yell.

"LEAVE US ALONE!" yells one of them. Dammit. They're little girls. They'll get away if – Just Dammit.

"SCULLY!"

A truck driver overhears, of course. With a shotgun. And a wife. "HEY! What the hell are you doing?"

"Back off. We're federal agents." It's worth a try.

"Yeah, and these are America's Most Wanted?" You have no idea, buddy. "Hands in front."

"LEAVE US ALONE!" Yell the girs. I hope they're enjoying this.

"Get in the truck, girls," says the wife. They squirm away from me and run to her. "Get in. I'm going to call the police."

They won't get in, I tell myself, as Scully says, "We are the police."

"Mulder!" she yells then as they run away through the trucks. They wouldn't get in the truck because they know we can prove our story. And if the police came, there would be no escape.

"They went that way," one driver finally tells me. We return to the truck stop. Nothing. A bus pulls out. They could be anywhere, stowing away on anything. God. The waitress is still inside. "Did you see the twins we were with?" asks Scully.

"No. There's a bunch of school kids just left in that bus."

Great.

Wait.

Too obvious. School buses have radios, roll calls, it's too conspicuous.

They're still here.

Somewhere. I turn to Scully.

"I have an idea." She raises an eyebrow.

I'm totally making that up, of course, but I just let it come spilling out of my mouth. "Scully, what if we were to pretend to drive off? If you drive out after the school bus, they might show themselves."

They'd see just me get in the car, though," she says. Yeah...

"Get in on the passenger side, and I'll get in on the driver side, then I'll crouch low and get back out. If you climb into the driver's seat while I hide, that should keep them from seeing.

She thinks it over. Not my most articulate plan. Whatever.

"Okay." So that's what we do, and then I wait. Sure enough, a tarp over a boat starts twitching. I keep to the shadows, and sneak up behind them as the girls crawl out into the night.

"Forget your sodas?"

"We didn't do anything wrong."

"We're just little girls."

Bull. "That's the last thing you are," I tell them, and then I handcuff the closer one to the boat rail and throw the key into the night.

That should hold them, I think, and I'm right. The other one won't leave her "sister". Instead she sits, glaring at me, as Scully comes back and handcuffs her too, then stands back, out of reach.

"You killed your fathers," I say, meaning it as a question.

"Yes," one of them says.

"We cultivated the plants ourselves," says the other.

How the hell- "How did you know?" I ask.

"We just did."

The police arrive ten minutes later and take the girls away to be evaluated. We can't tell them apart, so Mrs. Reardon is called to get Cindy, but as soon as she finds out that Cindy is in custody for murder she refuses to come down and visit. We drive back to San Diego in silence, and check into our hotel and go to bed.

It's not right.

XXXXX

The next day, the girls are gone, transferred to another facility. Teena's forms are signed by a social worker, but Cindy's are signed by her mother. Which means someone got to her.

We drive back to her house to try to talk some sense into the woman, to try to track the girls – the location of the "facility" where they're being kept is blank. I have a feeling I know where it is, though – and that I won't get in a second time.

I let Scully conduct the actual interview. She's better with people. I let her knock on the door, ask for a minute, and ask about the form.

Mrs. Reardon invites us in.

"I just wanted to know if you could tell us about this facility where Cindy is being kept," she says, as Mrs. Reardon examines a photo of Cindy with her father.

"They said they have an excellent program that can help her," Mrs. Reardon tells us.

I decide to try to talk. "They can't hide behind the bureaucracy, Mrs. Reardon. You have every right to know what happened. You have a right to know about your daughter."

"All I need to know is she was not my daughter. She never was." And that about sums it up. We won't get any help. If we did know where she was, maybe we could try to follow through. But someone came in and took the problem away.

Scully drives us back to the hotel, and we type up our reports and exchange them to read. For once, they're pretty similar. I suppose the facts sometimes just are what they are.


	12. Young At Heart

Please don't de-age me if you feel the need to punish me.

I don't own anything.

Including the X-files or any of the people or dialog mentioned in this story.

* * *

By the time we get our paperwork in order after flying in from San Diego, it's the week of Thanksgiving, the bane of people who work in retail everywhere. Personally, I hate the stupid holidays – nothing amusing happens but massive amounts of fake reindeer hanging everywhere and everyone gets freakishly religious. It usually snows, though, and I do enjoy snow.

It is snowing a little now, in fact.

I spend my weekend watching TV – there is nothing quite as amusing as Walker: Texas Ranger ("What is obvious is sometimes hidden in plain sight." Really) and reading. Doing nothing, in other words, because, let's face it, I have no life. Scully's probably planning a family holiday, watching some heartwarming movie about families being together at Thanksgiving, or else _It's a Wonderful Life_ and generally being the annoying person she doesn't mean to be but is because the holidays bring out the worst in me.

If I try really hard, I won't notice that Dad isn't going to even call me.

And I won't call him.

With this in mind, I go to work on Monday, like any normal day. Scully is already there – somewhere, because her stuff is in her chair but she's not in the office – and the message light is blinking.

Stupidly, I push the play button instead of the erase button. When will I learn?

It's from Reggie. Reggie Purdue.

Now I haven't talked to Reggie in years, not even when Jerry fell down that elevator shaft. He doesn't write, he doesn't call, and he certainly doesn't leave me messages at work.

"Hey, Mulder, it's Reggie. Reggie Purdue." Yeah, dude, I know. "I'm just calling because, uh... There's this Jewelery store, Zell Brothers? Got robbed? And, uh, well... Mulder, you need to get down here, I just... I don't know how to... Damn it, Mulder, just get down here. Now."

Click.

What the hell was that, I'd like to know?

Scully comes in carrying a bagel. "Morning, Mulder."

This month will not give us a rest. She looks tired, too. I know I am. "Scully," I tell her, "we have to go."

She looks sadly at her bagel.

"I won't tell if you don't?" I ask. She nods. "Okay, Mulder." We go back to the parking garage and get in my car. _Technically, _ if you're using your own car for Bureau purposes it becomes Bureau property and you can't eat in Bureau cars. Or something to that effect. But that's bull, so I'm gonna let it slide. God, I'm getting punchy.

We arrive at the jewelery store in ten minutes, and it looks for all the world like a typical robbery – police, lights, and dead body. "I still don't get it. What does this have to do with us?" asks Scully, who just swallowed the last of her bagel.

"Robbing a jewelry store is a federal crime," I answer, which is true.

"Thank you."

How to explain, when I don't even know? "I don't know. I got a call from some guy I used to work with over at the violent crimes section, said it was important." We walk by the coroner taking away a body and I see Reggie, all right. So that's something. "Reggie! Reggie!" I chant, just like old times, because VCU is dorky like that. We have a many handshake.

"Mulder, God, I hate it when you do that," he says.

"This is Special Agent Scully. Reggie Purdue," I dutifully introduce them. Now will someone tell me what's going on? This just reminds me of Barnett a little, and it's starting to freak me out.

"How are you?" Reggie asks Scully.

"What happened here?" She's good.

"Lone gunman took out a salesgirl after she filled up a bag for him."

Creepily familiar. "You guys turn up anything?"

"Not much... except... this. It's going to blow your mind."

And I know. I mean, I don't know, but I know. There's nothing else it could be.

But it can't be.

"Why?" I ask, which seems like a good enough question to start with.

"I'm telling you, Mulder, this is going to _blow... your... mind_."

I still know it, but my brain still won't process it. Not for one second. Not as he hands me the evidence bag, not even as I read the note, because there is _no way_, just none at all.

How?

I dimly hear Scully ask what it is, and my mind is playing catch-up. "Wait, wait a second... " I begin, but I don't know what I"m wating for.

"You see why I called you?"

Yes, I do. "What about witness descriptions?"

I know what he'll say.

"White male, five-eleven to six feet, ski mask."

"Damn it, Reggie, that's Barnett." Not my most intelligent response, but who cares?

"Yeah, but it can't be."

I know it can't. Dammit. "Who's Barnett?" asks Scully.

Reggie looks at her, and I look at her, and neither of us knows what to say. What a crappy year – first Jerry, now this.

"I'll be in touch, Mulder," Reggie finally says, because he doesn't know what else to say.

"Right," I reply, because I have to say _something._ My impulse is to thank him, but I can't imagine what for. I lead Scully out into the mall, knowing I'll have to say _something_, but I'm really sick of _something_ right now.

What a hell of a year.

"It was my first case at the bureau," I tell her, because I have to start somewhere. "Barnett was doing armed jobs all over D.C. and getting away with it, very trigger-happy. Killed seven people. There was this big task force, Reggie was my ASAC. I was twenty-eight years old, right out of the academy. I had this theory on the case. Reggie thought I was full of it. I was full of it."

"What was the theory?"

"That Barnett had an inside connection. An employee at the armored car company was tipping him off about large shipments of cash. Turns out I was sort of right." That's one way of putting it.

"Sort of?"

"Yeah, we planted bogus waybills, manifests with the armored car company to try to set a trap but Barnett was way ahead of us. _That's_... when the notes started." And I hand her the note Reggie never asked if he could have back. Now it's in my custody, I guess.

"'Fox can't guard the chicken coop,'" she reads.

Witty. "Clever, huh?"

"So you never caught him?"

I remember that night. The sound of gunshots – my heart pounding in my chest. "No, we did. We did, but not, uh, not clean. An agent died because I screwed up."

"And what happened to Barnett?"

That's the thing. I remember the verdict – all too well. "He avoided the death penalty on a technicality. But he went down for every job he did. Consecutive terms, three-hundred-and-forty years. The judge promised me he would die in prison." And he did. That's the problem.

"So you think he escaped?"

Definitely not. Until just now. "No, that's just it. He did die in prison, four years ago." Nothing like dramatic effect.

"You're sure?"

Very sure. "I was paying attention." I walk back to the car.

XXXXX

I take the note to Agent Henderson in handwriting, because she's the best. I have to know.

It can't be.

But it is.

She puts the note under her microscope, one of the cool ones with two sets of lenses so I can look too. "This guy a friend of yours?"

Yeah, we're best buds. "Yeah, I play golf with him every Sunday." She has said nothing relevant yet. "What do you think?"

"You just brought this in ten minutes ago."

You're slipping, Henderson. "You're slipping, Henderson."

"Ten minutes may be enough time for you, Mulder. Of course, I wouldn't know that from personal experience." I knew there was a reason I liked her.

I sit down. "Yeah... seriously, what do you think?"

"Okay, first impressions... the ink is fresh, the note was written in the last forty-eight hours. Ballpoint, but you knew that. A right-hander. Let's see... written by someone sitting down, but now I'm just showing off."

That's not what I need. "Yeah, does it match Barnett?"

"I'd say it's him."

"But you're not sure?" My heart lightens, for just a moment. She squints at me.

"Ninety-five percent. The writing's sloppier. Some of the ascenders and descenders are heavier."

Whatever that means. "Could it have been traced over an old note of Barnett's?"

"Could be, but it's a damn good job if it is."

This is not what I want to hear. I mean back from the dead is cool and all, usually, but not this time. "Thanks, Henderson, I owe you one."

"Promises, promises." I leaver her to it.

XXXXX

I call the prison bureau and get a copy of the death certificate faxed over, just so I have some freaking documentation that I'm not crazy, which will eventually come up if I know the FBI like I think I do. Scully finds me as I'm picking it up out of the machine.

"What did Henderson come up with?"

She's gonna be all over this. "Ninety-five percent sure it's Barnett's handwriting." Which she's probably just thinking isn't 100, even though anyone with half a brain knows science is never 100% certain about anything.

She glances at the paper. "What's that?"

"Federal Bureau of Prisons sent me a copy of his death certificate," I explain. "'Name of deceased, Barnett, John Irvin. Cause of death, cardiac arrest. Date, September sixteenth, 1989.'" Pretty cut and dried. We start walking toward the doors – she's not even trying to go back to the office.

"Then it must be a very clever copycat."

Here we go. "The note was written in the last forty-eight hours," I tell her, as though that proves anything but I'm not at my best and she doesn't question it.

"Pull any prints?"

Ha! Tried it. "No prints."

"Barnett had a lot of time on his hands while he was in prison, maybe he planned it with someone on the outside."

I open the door to a confrence room at the end of the bullpen. "Revenge from the grave? That'd be a neat trick." We've even seen something like it before, in Philly.

"He planned to get you, didn't he?"

Sometimes the world really does stop, I decide. And it never goes in quite the same way again. The world changed when Samantha was taken, when my parents got divorced, and the world changed again that day that we took Barnett in.

"I was just down talking to Agent Purdue.  
I know what he said, and I know what she saw. "And he showed you the videotape?" I ask, even though she knows.

She nods. "You did the right thing, Mulder."

Then why have I been second guessing it all this time? "Did I? Steve Wallenberg had a wife and two kids. One of his boys is an all-star on his football team now." I know this because sometimes I go watch the games, because a sadistic part of me hopes that someone responsible for Samantha's disappearance came to the prom she never went to, the graduation she never got to have, and so on. It's like a reverse punishment, but I don't care. It's right, and it keeps me from forgetting – until it's all resolved in my head, which it probably will never be. "If I had pulled the trigger two seconds earlier and Wallenberg would be here to see his kid play. Instead, I got some dead man robbing jewelry stores and sending me haikus." I'm starting to like football.

I leave her standing there because I don't know what else to say anyway. Stupid robber.

XXXX

There is a game that day, in fact, and I am in town, and I'm thinking about it anyway, so I go. The kids are so tiny – they seem young to be slamming into each other.

My fault his dad isn't here.

My fault.

Enough wallowing, Mulder. Time to go anyway, Scully'll be worrying.

When I get to my car I see the note. On the freaking seat – he was in the car. I open it and sure enough, there's surveillance photos and a cute little note:

"A hunted Fox eventually dies."

Dammmit.

"I'll get you, you son of a bitch!" I find myself shouting, even though, no, not so much, he's just gonna get off on this, if he's even around to hear me.

Plenty of parents staring though. I get in the car to drive back to work.

Dammit.

XXXXX

I take the photos to Reggie, because I don't know what the hell else to do. It's not that I don't believe in ressurection, it's just...

This is _Barnett_. Fucking _Barnett._

I think I may be going crazy.

Anyway, I flop the pictures down on Reggie's desk and watch while he examines them. "Agent Mulder, I think that somebody is messing with your head."

I don't know anything anymore. "Barnett said he'd get me, you were there."

"I don't care what Barnett said, he's dead, Mulder."

It all fits, except that. Therefore, he's not. "Apparently not."

"Aw, come on. Let me tell you something, there are a lot of guys who know that Barnett made the threat."

He's right. "It's Barnett, Reggie."

"How could you say that?"

It makes no sense, but... "I don't know, I just feel it." With everything I am. Maybe I am crazy.

Reggie signals to his assistant, who I vaguely recall being in the room but haven't really acknowledged. "You know, all this talk around here, about "Spooky" Mulder, I never used to pay it much mind. I figured it was just talk about how paranoid you were and all."

This isn't good. I can't lose Reggie. Not in this way. He's doubting me. "And now?"

"Remember the day you walked into my office wet from Quantico?" Not good at all. "You pissed me off just looking at you but then I saw how your mind worked. How you were always three jumps ahead. It was scary, Mulder. Everybody said so."

He tells this story sometimes, when he's trying to get someone to listen to me. "I've heard this story." And now I want to leave, but Reggie grabs my arm and turns me around.

"Yeah, well, maybe you ought to hear it again. You let a lot of people down here in the bureau. They had big plans for you. A lot of people are saying that "Spooky" Mulder has become an embarrassment, a liability."

This isn't what I thought. Maybe I haven't lost him at all. "What? Are you saying that somebody from the bureau's behind this?"

"Maybe, maybe not. It's always best to cover your ass in any event."

God. What the hell is going on anyway? "Sorry. This was just faxed." Scully. I didn't realize she'd come in. "This is a copy of John Barnett's last will and testament. No surviving relatives, left what little he had to another prisoner... a Joe Crandall... and instructions for his body to be cremated. His will was executed six months after his death and this document states that his ashes were spread along the bank of the Delaware River by an employee of the crematory used by the prison."

"It's like I said," Reggie says, "I think somebody's messing with your head."

So, yeah, maybe.

But there's also no body to dig up. "Killing a sales clerk just to leave me a note? I'd say that's going a little out of your way."

I take my pictures back. Still wanna have them analyzed. And the notes, for handwriting. I'm sure there's another way to get proof.

Take that.

So I take it all up to forensics and have them run the age composite program thingy. The one that shows what someone would look like if they were older. And I have them run Barnett's mug shot. "He's older now, he may have put on some weight," I tell the tech once it's been pulled up on the screen.

"How much older?"

"Five years." She pushes some keys. He gets older, thinner.

"He could be wearing any kind of disguise," I tell her. She gives him a beard.

I don't want to do this. Not anymore.

And I can't stop thinking about it.

I was young, I know that. And I was scared. And when I testified, it was the first time, but dammit, I put him away. "Take us back to the day in question. Was it your impression, Agent Mulder, that John Barnett took a kind of a perverse pleasure in his crimes? Didn't he send you notes to taunt you?"

It sucks, being able to recall things in such detail. Yeah, he taunted me. "Yes, I felt that he was, uh, daring us to catch him. That he killed his victims almost as if it were part of a game," I told the prosecutor, and I don't regret putting it that way because it _was _ a game.

"Describe for the court if you would, Agent Mulder, what happened when you finally caught John Barnett," she instructed me.

"We had a customs warehouse at the airport staked out," I told her then. It was a good plan. Just not good enough. My fault, that I didn't realize. "Now, we knew that Barnett had someone working for the armored car transport tipping him off about large cash shipments but we never figured that he would actually be inside the vehicle when it arrived. That's how Barnett was able to take the driver of the vehicle hostage."

"In other words, John Barnett used his own accomplice as a hostage?"

The guy was scared, even though he got himself into it. So scared. "Yes, ma'am."

"And then what happened?"

I saw it then, just like I still see it sometimes. Especially now. The way we pulled out of hiding, surrounded them. I was behind him. I should have shot him. I wanted to. I really did. And then he shot his hostage, and then he shot Steve and want became need and need became did and I don't regret it. So I lost my temper on the stand. So I started yelling that he shot Steve Wallenberg out of spite and that he should die like an animal. And when I stepped down, Barnett said it:

"I'll... get... you."

But he died.

"I'll need printouts of every variation," I tell the computer lady.

"Right."

"I just got off the phone with the prison," says Scully. When did she get there?

"What did they come up with?"

"No, I called them on a hunch. John Barnett died of a heart attack, right? At least that's what it says on his death certificate. Well, I had them fax me all of his medical records. Barnett was admitted to the prison infirmary for an infection in his right hand. There isn't any indication or diagnosis of coronary complications. In fact, on his physical six months earlier, he was given a clean bill of health."

Well that, is weird.

"It's too late today," she says, "but they said we can go out there and meet with Joe Crandall tomorrow."

I have to think for a second. Oh yeah, Crandall. The heir. "Okay."

November 30 – Tuesday

Once we're all checked in at the prison and make it in, we're eventually escorted to this Crandall guy, in the prison hospital ward.

"I don't get many visitors," he says when we're finally escorted in to see him as he's rolling his way down a hall in his wheelchair.

"You knew John Barnett?" I ask, because that's a good place to start.

"Yes, sir."

Good. Cooperative. "How well did you know him?"

"Pretty well."

"He left you everything he had in his will," says Scully. "You must've known him better than pretty well."

"Used to change his bandages, and we just got to... know each other."

Makes sense, I guess. "Are you aware that Barnett died of cardiac arrest in this facility in 1989?" I ask. He worked in the hospital ward, night shift. Barnett died at night.

"Cardiac arrest? Where does it say that?"

Uh oh. I think I stop breathing. "On his death certificate," says Scully.

The rolling stops.  
"He ain't dead, is he?"

_Isn't_, says my third-grade teacher. _Isn't dead_. "Why do you say that?"

"Last time I saw John Barnett, it was right in that room over there." he says, nodding to a door down the hall. "Doctor working on him with a knife took his bad hand clean off."

"What doctor?"

I realize then that I have the death certificate memorized. "Was it Doctor Ridley?"

"Yeah, yeah, it was Doctor Ridley, that's the one. He told me Johnny was dead but, uh, I knew it was a lie. Put a knife right up under my chin just for asking."

And Scully, bless her, asks the question that makes it all real. "How could you tell Barnett wasn't dead?"

"I saw him looking at me. I saw him blink. Man, I'll never forget those eyes."

Blinking means alive. After he was declared dead. I win.

XXXXX

Once we get back to work, Scully asks the million-dollar question: "What are you going to do?"

Who the hell knows? "I know what I'm not going to do. I'm not going to hang around and wait for Barnett to send me another valentine."

"You mean the ghost of John Barnett."

Really? Is it really easier to believe in ghosts? "I didn't know you believe in ghosts, Scully."

The phone rings, which saves her the trouble. "Hello? Yeah, just a minute," she glances at me, "It's for you."

And so I take the phone. And then I know. "Mulder."

"Fox Mulder."

Fuck.

"Barnett?" I ask, but it's mostly for Scully's benefit, and so is all the arm-waving I'm doing. She mutters something and runs off, hopefully to trace the call. "You're alive?" I _knew _it.

"Well, you know, shouldn't I be? You know, it's illegal to tape another's phone call without their express permission. Isn't that what they call it?"

Details. "In some states. What makes you think I'm taping you?"

"Same thing makes me think you're putting a trace on this call."

Never said he was stupid. Stupid haircut though. "What state are you in?"

"The same state you are. I stood next to you in line for coffee this morning."

I would have noticed. Although I _did_ get coffee this morning. And DC isn't a state. And you _can _tape people in DC if they call a Federal building. "I don't think so."

"Man, I'm everywhere you are. Everywhere. I own you."

Hyuk huyk. "How do I know it's really you, Barnett?"

"What did I say to you in the courtroom? Did you ever... doubt me?"

No. Not until you died, then I thought I'd dodged a bullet. "I don't know, what did you tell me in the courtroom?"

"Huh... if you think you're going to keep me on this phone with this clumsy act..."

No, I don't. I just want to know. "Listen, by all accounts, John Barnett is a dead man."

"Oh, you're the dead man... Mulder."

Huh. What's new? I want to be able to laugh it off, but I have just enough self-preservation left. "Fine. I just need confirmation that you are who you say you are."

"You want confirmation? You got it."

How? "Barnett? You there?"

Nothing, except Scully is back as I slam the phone down. "You lost him."

Nothing to be done. "Yeah, he was hip to the trace."

"Was it Barnett?"

Good question. I don't know. "John Barnett was from New Hampshire. He had a slight accent. Listen to this." And I press Play.

"I just need confirmation that you are who you say you are," I hear myself say. And then, "You want confirmation? You got it." Same voice. "What did he mean by that?" she asks.

Who knows? "I don't know, but that is... John Barnett. I'm sure of it."

XXXXX

I call Reggie. It's late and I feel bad, but he needs to know. "Reggie, it's Mulder."

"Mulder, what do you want? It's the middle of the night."

It is not! I check my watch and everything. "It's only 10:45, Reggie."

"Yeah, well... I was sleeping."

And I was awake, deal. "Listen, Reggie, it doesn't look like Barnett's dead after all."

"Now what?"

He's gotta believe me now. No more. "I've got an inmate at the prison who swears he saw Barnett alive the night they say he died."

"Mulder, go home. Get some rest."

Someone' has to help with this. Scully's gone for the night. And I need him to believe me. It was an infection in his _right_ hand. Barnett was _right handed_. His _right hand _ was amputated. "No, listen, Reggie, there's just one thing that doesn't make sense to me."

"Yeah, what's that?"

"That Agent Henderson said that that note that was left at the jewelry store was written by a right-hander."

"Yeah, so?"

"Well, this inmate at the prison swears he saw Barnett's right hand amputated."

And then I hear – not a cough. Choking? Maybe choking.

Oh, God.

"Reggie, you there?" I ask, but no answer. "Hey, Reggie!" I shout, but still no answer. "Reggie! Reggie, what's going on? Are you there? What the hell is going on, Reggie? Nothing. "Reggie! What happened? Hey, Reggie!" Silence now, Nothing at all. "What's going on? Are you there? What the hell's going on, Reggie?" Nothing. I hang up and call 911 while I'm driving like mad to his house, praying he still lives in the same place, praying he choked on a LifeSaver, had a heart attack, anything but Barnett. _Not Barnett_, I tell myself. _Not Barnett Not Barnett not Barnett not Barnett. ._

When the 911 operator hangs up, I call Scully, give her the address and tell her to meet me.

The paramedics have already covered the body by the time I get there, and the police have contacted the FBI. Crime scene vans are pulling in before I am up the stairs. And when I am up the stairs I see it. Of course. Proof.

"I hope you guys brought your fine-toothed comb. I want every piece of lint collected and analyzed. If nothing turns up, run it through it again."

Scully.

How can I do this to her, after Jerry, after Reggie, how can I ever work with anyone again. "Mulder..." she says, coming into the room. "His wife died of cancer six years ago. Never liked to talk about it," I tell her. He was alone. "As long as I knew him, he was working on a mystery novel. He promised to show it to me once, but he never did. I think he was afraid I wouldn't like it. I'm probably the only guy on the bureau he trusted enough to even ask."

"I'm sorry."

I should have killed Barnett when I had the chance. "I'm just thinking how _different_ things would've been if I would've taken that shot at Barnett when I _had_ it."

"Mulder... we're still not a hundred percent sure that this is him."

I point to the note, which I bagged myself. "'Funerals for Fox's friends - then for Fox'"

Day 3

I take the note to the crime lab the next morning for Henderson to look at. She puts the note under the microscope. "Suspect had his right hand amputated," I tell her. "Could this have been written by him?"

"Fresh ink, slightly smeared... I hate to tell you, and I'm not known to be wrong about these things, but this note was most certainly written by a right-handed person."

Well crap.

"You see the pressure points inside the pen grooves? It's a dead giveaway."

"Would you be able to tell if this note was written by somebody using a prosthetic hand?" I ask, even though Barnett was never fitted for one that we know of.

"Well, this fellow... and I'm assuming from the cursive figures here that it is a male suspect... he has a fairly nice, fluid style. Judging from the pressure variations in the connectors, this person would need good finger dexterity. You're not going to get that with a prosthesis."

Scrap that then.

"So you think it's the same person that wrote the first note?" I ask her, even though it has to be.

"Uh-huh." I take the note back. "This the guy you think killed Agent Purdue?"

God. "Yeah."

"You know what occured to me? You never got any prints off those notes."

So?

"If this guy was wearing a glove on his pen hand, the note wouldn't be smeared like it is. For what it's worth."

I pick up the other note. No fingerprints, no gloves.

Well.

XXXXX

"I was just trying to find you. Listen to this. According to the A.M.A., Doctor Ridley, who signed Barnett's death certificate, hasn't officially been a doctor since 1979."

Uh... He worked at the _prison. _You'd think someone would notice that. "What do you mean?"

"His membership expired and wasn't renowed after the state of Maryland revoked his medical license for flagrant research malpractice and misuse of a government grant."

Some prison. I take the papers out of her hands. "Where does it say that?"

She points. "Right here. In the federal journal for the National Institute of Health."

"What kind of research?"

"He was conducting experiments on young children afflicted with a disease called progeria." I've heard of this, I think. The one that makes them age faster. "I made us an apointment with the NIH," she tells me. "Doctor Benson is the one it says he was working with – I thought he might be able to explain what's going on."

XXXXX

We drive over to Bethesda in silence, and I can't help thinking I wish he'd just come for me. Nothing is worth this – I don't know what I would do if it were Scully, Reggie is bad enough. _Jerry_ was bad enough. What the hell is wrong with my life – haven't I lost enough yet? Stupid universe just won't stop punishing the people around me – punishing _me._

_God Fucking Damn It._

Scully signs us in, because God knows what would happen if I tried to do anything, and we walk up to Doctor Benson's office. His secretary is expecting us, because Scully just flashes her ID and we walk right in, and I would not have even _thought _of this, and I wouldn't know where to start to investigate it, and I wouldn't have gotten in so quietly, that's for damn sure.

I'm gonna lose her too, someday.

Doctor Benson does the initial handshake thing and he and Scully talk for a minute about liscenses and beaureaucratese before he says, "I'd like to show you something," and turns off the lights. I _almost_ say something about not needing to be here for this but I don't really feel like it.

Benson turns on a projector, showing us a film of a tiny... kid, by the size, but she looks about ninety.

"The patient you see is an eight-year-old girl suffering from the advanced stages of progeria."

Jesus. "She looks about ninety," I tell him.

"Only about a hundred cases have ever been reported so the disease is rare."

Dumbest sentence ever.

"But fatal," says Scully.

"Some progeria patients make it to early adulthood but others become terminal at age seven or eight."

Okay, so what's the connection? "What's the cause of death?"

"Clinically, it's cardiac or cerebral vascular disease but actually, these poor kids die of old age."

The girl is talking to a doctor now. "Is that Doctor Ridley?"

"Yes, in 1974. Joe Ridley thought that he could take their accelerated aging and slow it down. Initially, some of his lab work was promising but then... things got out of control. He wanted to begin human trials."

So? "Why wasn't he allowed to?"

"Because he hadn't met the criteria. It was all too hypothetical, too... dangerous." They were dying! Maybe he wanted to help. "I mean... I knew Joe Ridley. He didn't care about those kids. He talked about them as if they were laboratory animals." Oh. "This terrible disease, progeria... he saw it as 'a wonderful opportunity.' He used those exact words with me once. An opportunity to 'unlock all the secrets.' When they refused to allow the human trials, he became enraged. Do you know what they called Joe Ridley behind his back?"

This could be good. "What?"

"Doktor Mengele."

Pretty clear then.

"So, how did Doctor Ridley eventually lose his medical license?" asked Scully.

"He went ahead with the human trials secretly on an out-patient basis."

Oh my.

"When we learned about it, of course, we terminated his grant and filed charges with the state medical boards."

"I'm afraid your colleague, Doctor Ridley, has dropped off the face of the earth," Scully tells him. She doesn't mention the prison.

"Yeah. Although, it's rumored he went to South America to continue his work."

Ah. Well that explains how he got somewhere.

Scully does the polite thing, thanks Benson for his time, and then we both leave the office.

"You just don't reverse aging," she says as we leave the office.

"Ridley's found a way," I remind her, because it makes sense – how else would Barnett be able to walk around with his picture everywhere?

"Listen to what you're saying," says Scully, but seriously, who cares, I go where my brain takes me, which is where Benson took me, and Scully took me to Benson so if she thinks I'm crazy it's her own fault.

"He wanted human research subjects, right? Prisoners. Prisoners like John Barnett." It all fits.

"Mulder, it's science fiction."

Pathetic argument. "Well, what would you have said twenty years ago about gene splicing, DNA fingerprinting, cloning, artificial intelligence?" We're at the elevator now and I push the button. "Maybe we're not looking for a man in his late forties after all. Maybe John Barnett has found the perfect disguise... youth." Yup, it all fits.

We get in the elevator. This is the part where we go try to prove each other wrong until someone – usually me – wins. Someday I will lose this, too. And I will miss it very much.

XXXXX

I go back to the lab with the computers and the aging and ask the tech to pull up Barnett again.

"I want to age him backwards now. Let's start with ten years," I ask. The tech doesn't blink, which says something about my reputation.

He looks healthier now, on the screen.

"Now, five years more."

Younger looking.

"And add twenty pounds. A healthy twenty pounds."

Still too skinny.

XXXXX

The call comes when I'm on my way out to the car.

"Mulder."

"Mulder, it's me." Scully. "Dr. Ridley is here, Mulder. You need to get over here, now."

XXXXX

Ridley's eyes are glazed over, like cataracts or something. He's sick, I think. "If you're really Doctor Joseph Ridley, where've you been for the past five years?" I ask him.

It's almost over, I tell myself. Almost.

"I originally continued my research in Mexico but for the last three years, I spent my time in Central America. In Belize, to be exact."

Okay, now the meat of it. "What about Barnett?"

"John Barnett is the only patient left. The only one who survived the experiments."

Charming. "What about you?"

"My appearance is decieving. I have no more than a month to live as I am dying from a rare cerebral vascular disease."

Ironic. "The same disease that kills the kids suffering from progeria?" asks Scully, and I know she's going where I'm going.

"That's right," says Ridley, and he chuckles. "An unfortunate side effect of the treatment. By using the genetic components of progeria, I was able to reverse the aging process in much the same way the disease expedited it. At the same time, I and my patients became genetically susceptible to the same ailments a child six or eight would if he had the disease."

"And what about Barnett?" I ask him. Stay focused, gloat at Scully later.

"John Barnett. If I didn't so personally detest the man, I might call him my one triumph."

"Barnett's not dying," I realize.

"Only his eyes, which for some reason do not respond to the gene therapy. Otherwise, John Barnett appears to be thriving."

"But how?" asks Scully.

"I varied Barnett's treatment. Once I isolated the progeria receptors, I stumbled onto something quite unexpected... these same genes related to the production of myelin."

What? "The material that insulates neurons in the body," narrates Scully.

"Yes. You see, myelin is not present in the very young and by reversing the effects of aging, I found, with Barnett, I was able to regulate the production of myelin. Myelin being the material that prohibits you or I from, say, regenerating a new hand if we were to have ours cut... off."

Oh.

_Oh._

"You were able to grow John Barnett a new hand?"

"Not exactly. Not a human hand, anyway. I could never get the cells to divide or behave properly."

Scully jumps in with what I was wondering. "I'm afraid to ask. What kind of hand did you grow?"

"There had been some successful work done in London. By taking samples of what we call cell morphegins from an amputated salamander arm and applying them to the back of the creature, they were able to grow a new limb on a completely different part of the body. But only on salamanders."

Oh ew. "Until John Barnett."

"Yeah."

"Unbelievable," mutters Scully.

"My work has cost me dearly. I'm an outcast in the medical community. I was called Doctor Mengele, Doctor Frankenstein but I didn't care."

Yeah, well, they call me Spooky and I don't care either.

"Because you knew that if your theories panned out..." begins Scully.

"The man who owns the fountain of youth controls the world. When the A.M.A. censured me, certain sponsors came out of the woodwork. One of them is the U.S. Government."

Typical. "They _financed_ your research?"

"You might be more surprised to learn just how high up the ladder this dirty little secret goes."

"How high?" asks Scully.

"Department of Defense," says Ridley, matter-of-factly, and I want to scream.

XXXXX

Deep Throat agrees to meet me at some bar downtown called Gertie's. "I know why you've contacted me," he says as he sits down. "Listen and I'll explain. I am not particularly proud of the way in which this matter was handled but, uh, like it or not, John Barnett is a fact of life."

I want to kill someone. I think I want to kill someone. "I wish Agent Perdue were around to appreciate the irony."

"The government knew full well that Barnett was in the country. You, of course, know that Barnett stole all of Ridley's research."

"Yes, Ridley was..." I begin, but Deep Throat cuts me off.

"Well, what Ridley doesn't know is that our government is bargaining with Barnett to buy it from him."

I can't help the chuckle. "What does he want?"

"A lot of money, immunity, safe haven."

No. Not Barnett. "Will he get it?"

Now Deep Throat chuckles. "He holds all the cards."

"You're aware that this... freak of science you're negotiating with is a murderer?"

A nod.

Dammit!

"The information he has... could change the course of mankind. Consider the options."

"I will," I tell him, and I walk away, out of here. And then I keep walking, for a long long time.

December 2

I end up getting my car and driving it back to work, sitting in my office staring at the computer image of young Barnett and waiting. Scully comes in at 9 and puts something down on the desk – an answering machine.

"What's that?" I ask her.

"It's my private answering machine. Or at least it used to be."

Uh oh.

I put down the picture. "What do you mean?"

"When I ran from the shower this morning, I heard someone dialing in my private code and replaying my messages. Last night, before Doctor Ridley, I could have sworn that someone was in my apartment. But when Ridley knocked, I thought I'd mistaken the noise for him."

Oh.

God.

No.

Not again.

"Scully..."

"This morning, I took this down to prints before I came here. John Barnett's left index oblique is on the underside of this unit."

NONONONONONONONONONONO.

The phone rings and I pick it up. "Mulder."

Nothing.

"Barnett?"

"Your new friend, Ridley?" Crap. "Don't grow to fond of him... huh? He's going to die soon like the rest of your friends."

Ah.

"The rest of my friends?"

"One by one."

Well, my friends are all dead now.

Except Scully.

Is she even my friend?

Who cares – Barnett won't make the distinction.

"You're not that smart," I tell him.

"Tell me, you're not going to make me prove it to you again, are you? Oh, well, no matter. It'll be your turn soon enough."

Charming. Can't wait. "Well, you won't get that chance."

"Oh, no?" He laughs. I don't like it. "Who's going to stop me, huh? Man, this is... this is the land of the free! Well, I'm just checking in. Bye. For now."

Click.

"What does Barnett know about your phone messages?" I ask Scully.

"Uh, that my mother called for no reason and I'm meeting a friend before her cello recital."

But he doesn't know that we know.

"Where's that?"

"Taylor Hall."

And I feel hope.

XXXXX

The FBI does stings really well. There should be a prize.

You get a few agents, hide them in storage rooms and utility closets, let everyone go about their business, and then when it's time, someone yells "Go!" or "Christmas!" or some other thing and just like that, game over.

Or at least that's how it should be.

We crowd a bunch of people into the hall, just me, Scully, and about a billion FBI agents. "Before the performance and during, we're working at a disadvantage because we don't know exactly what Barnett looks like. Study each of these faces. Know them, particularly the eyes," I tell the group as Scully passes out renditions of what he might look like now.

"I'm including a diagram of the theater. You have six front entrances and four more backstage," she tells the group.

I look to the group. "We know that if he shows, he'll be keying on Scully. So wherever she is, she should not leave your sight. We've got two hours before the performance. Know this place inside and out. We don't want any shots fired if we can help it. We want to take Barnett alive, okay?" So he can be locked up and experimented on. Sounds about right. The crowd disbands. "How are you feeling?" I ask Scully.

"It's the first time I've ever played the target."

Yeah.

"Let's make sure it's not the last time," I reply. Ouch. Not what I meant.

Concert hall, where a man is tuning the piano and Kathy is warming up. Outside in the lobby, the recital is about to start, and people are milling around. Suddenly I hear Scully yell "Gun!" I see her shove someone out of the way of a shot, I see another shot hit her in the chest.

Please be wearing a vest, please be wearing a vest...

"Down!" I yell. Barnett runs away into the lobby. "Check her out!" I yell as Barnett runs to the stage and grabs Scully's friend. Great. Puts his gun to her head. Perfect.

"Stay back, Mulder!" he yells, and then "Shut up..." to poor Kathy or whatever her name is.

A second chance.

I turn back to my accomplices. "Back off, back off..." I tell them. And then I point my gun at Barnett.

"I'll kill her! Don't even think about it!" I know he will.

"Just let her go."

"Go ahead and shoot. Go ahead, man. Shoot, Mulder! What are you afraid of, huh? What, it's against regulations... huh? No, man. You need me alive, don't you? Because I'm the only one who knows where the research is! Huh? So I could shoot her! And you just to live with it, don't you, huh?"

"Shut up!" I yell, like that'll work.

I lower my gun. Can't shoot him. Under orders. Experiment on him. Make him suffer. "How about it, Mulder?"

Screw it.

I raise my gun again.

"Just like old times, huh? Huh?"

And I pull the trigger and he falls and Kathy or whatever is alive. And Barnett probably isn't and I don't think I care.

"Call an ambulance!" I cry. Just because.

XXXXX

They interrogate him on his deathbed while the doctor performs CPR. Stupid, really. He won't talk.

Scully comes up behind me while I watch. "How you feeling?" I ask

"Like somebody kicked me in the ribs."

She was wearing a vest. "That bullet went through eight layers of kevlar, you're lucky to be alive."

"What about him?"

"Well, they flew in three specialists to try to save his life. That guy in the ugly suit there is probably C.I.A. Been trying to talk to him."

"Is Barnett conscious?"

"Yeah, but he's not talking."

We watch the activity in the room for a minute.

"Mulder, I know what you did wasn't by the book."

Shrug. "Tells you a lot about the book, doesn't it?"

Barnett's heart stops.

"They lost him," says Scully.

I'm okay with that.

"Bastard will take that research with him to the grave."

"Where do you think it is?" she asks.

"Who knows? If Barnett didn't destroy it, he could have stashed it anywhere. Which would have a cruel irony, wouldn't it? Scientific knowledge that could change the course of mankind buried out in a field somewhere or in some safe deposit box. Getting old, just like the rest of us."

"If he didn't destroy it, chances are that somehow, someday, somebody will find it."

It's not over. Maybe it won't ever be. "And when they do... maybe he can get his revenge from beyond the grave but somehow, I feel like we haven't heard the last from John Barnett."

At least he's dead.


	13. Fire

Okay, so here we are, another chapter, dutifully plucked from the wonderous season 1.

It doesn't belong to me. It belongs to the people who wrote it.

They are welcome to it.

* * *

Day 1 – December 6 - Monday  
I don't get to testify often. Just doesn't happen – we don't usually press charges. But they won't let us examine Tooms any more, and there's a hearing, which we both have to testify at and explain why it's so important. No ruling today though. We lug our leagalese books out of the courthouse and back to the car afterwards, and Scully mutters, "I forgot what it was like to spend a day in court."

"Well, that's one of the luxuries of hunting down aliens and genetic mutants. You rarely get to press charges," I tell her, not mentioning that I just was thinking the same thing.

"It's open," she says as I look for my car keys.

That's not right. "What?"

"It's unlocked."

No... "That's weird. I'm sure I locked it."

"Must be an X-File." Ha ha. She gets in the car. "What's that?" she asks, pointing to a tape on the dashboard.

Ha! "I told you I locked the door."

"What do you think it is?"

Uh... "Ten-to-one, you can't dance to it."

I put the tape in the player. "Greetings, Agent Mulder. Six months ago, British Minister of Parliament Reggie Ellicott received an audio cassette much like the one you are listening to now."

I know that voice.

"Unfortunately for Mr. Ellicott, when he popped the tape into the car stereo, he armed a device, which, when he tried to exit the car, created an explosion that was heard five miles away. The Scotland Yard Forensic Team could only identify the poor bastard by his dental records. If only he hadn't reached for the door handle and triggered the detonator. But then how was he to know he was sitting on enough plastique explosive to lift the car forty feet in the air and deposit the engine block on top of a three-story building?"

Oh dear, she's here.

Help me!

The door opens and Scully gasps. And there she is. Dammit!

I hate my exes. Both my exes.

"Aren't we looking rather ghostly?" _she _asks.

"It's an old friend," I tell Scully, climbing out of the car. "Aren't you going to thank me?"

For what? "For what?"

"Saving your life. One tends not to make the same mistake twice."

Lovely.

"I'll try to remember that."

"Oh, come on, don't tell me you left your sense of humor in Oxford ten years ago," _she_ says.

"No, actually. It's one of the few things you didn't drive a stake through."

_She _kisses me then, and I wish she wouldn't. Evil bitch – last time I saw her she was making out with some guy on Arthur Conan Doyle's tomb.

Some guy that wasn't me.

Bitch.

"You know, some mistakes are quite worth making twice," _she_ says.

"Dana Scully, this is Phoebe Green, terror of Scotland Yard," ignoring the flirting.

"Hello."

"_Hello,_" says Scully.

"She hates me."

"What brings you to the colonies?" I ask her.

"I'm on a case, and I thought I could use your help."

Oh for crying out loud, what did I _do_, anyway?

"Okay," I tell her, "Do you have a car?" I'm not letting her in mine.

"Yes."

"Why don't you follow us back?" I ask, and I climb back in the car and so does Scully, hoping for silence on the trip over. Blessed silence.

XXXXX

We get back to the office and she is already there. Typical. God only knows how she found it. "Some clever bloke has been giving the aristocracy a good scare. Killed off a ranking member of Parliament or three for good measure. Set Windsor Castle ablaze in 1992," she says as soon as we're sitting down. She already had the lights down and the projector on. _My _projector.

"Your car bomber?" I ask.

"No. This one likes to burn his victims alive. Can't figure out how he does it either. Not a crumb of evidence left at the crime scene. The last one died in his front garden, his poor young wife watching helplessly as he went up in smoke."

Okaaaay. "The Irish Republican Army?"

"Our suspect likes to send love letters to his victims' wives." So no then. "Sent one to the wife of some Malcolm Marsden a month ago. Three days later, he narrowly escaped a fire in his garage. Burned to the ground. So they're renting a place out on Cape Cod. Bringing the family over to the states for an extended holiday or until we can catch the dirty bugger."

Really? It's an 8 hour plane trip! "You think he's that determined?"

"Judging by his success, he seems to take a certain delight in his work."

Okay, fair enough. "So what brings you on this detour to Washington, D.C., Inspector?" Cape Cod isn't exactly local.

"I figured my friend Mulder couldn't resist a three-pipe problem." Inside jokes now? Are we back to that?

"I'll run it by our arson specialist." Now go away.

"Splendid. I'll call London, let them know." Great. Now it's official. She turns to look at Scully. "Oh, goodbye."

Scully waves. She actually waves. _She_ leaves. "Three-pipe problem?" asks Scully.

Holmes. Stupid Holmes. "That's, uh, from Sherlock Holmes. It's a private joke."

"How private?"

I know what she's asking. Just not sure why she's asking it.

"Um... we knew each other in school in England. She was brilliant and, uh, I got in over my head and, uh, paid the price."

"Mulder, you just keep unfolding like a flower."

"That was over ten years ago, Scully." I'm still confused.

"Yeah, I noticed how you couldn't drop everything fast enough in order to help her out."

Still confused. "Oh, I was merely extending her a professional courtesy."

"Oh, is that what you were extending?"

She sounds jealous.

"Look, I'm going to run this by the arson guys and then she's on her own."

It won't end there of course. It never ends anywhere. But I can pretend.

"Something tells me you're not going to get rid of her that easily," says Scully. Perceptive.

Time to go talk to arson.

XXXX

Dammed if the bitch didn't beat me there too, waiting in Beatty's office, handing off more damn slides. Unbelievable.

"Mulder," says Beatty, I was just chatting with your friend.

Great.

"She was just filling me in. Sounds like quite a thing. Shall we? I take a seat and he turns on the slides."

Great.

Stupid flames.

"Beautiful," mutters Beatty. Freak.

More flames. "Oh, just beautiful. Look at that. Salmon red flames. This is fourteen-hundred, fifteen-hundred degrees. This is a work of art."

Burned body.

My nightmare.

"Was there any kind incendiary device used?"

_She _answers. "Yes, actually. The victim's body."

"Spontaneous combustion?"

"He was murdered. However, we've turned up no evidence that tells us how the body caught fire."

The slides get turned off. "Well, that's peculiar. People don't normally just catch on fire."

"I mean, we burn, but we don't conduct all that well. There's usually some kind of extraneous fuel involved like candle wax, gasoline, something flammable and incendiary that adheres to the skin."

"Like an accelerant."

"Like an accelerant, yes."

Why am I even here?

"But we found no trace of anything, save for a dusting of magnesium at two of the sites."

"That's aliphatic pyrolysis. It's a residue remaining after an exothermic reaction."

"But there's no evidence of the source, no pour patterns or ignition devices."

"There have been some arson fires in Seattle lately and, uh, Pennsylvania that burn so hot that the firemen can't put them out. 7,000 degrees. I mean, hosing that down just makes it worse."

Finally, something to say! My own innate sense of self-flagellation compels me to ask, "How's that?"

"Uh, the, uh, reaction is so intense that it splits the water into hydrogen and oxygen. Just adds fuel to the fire."

Great.

"What were they using?"

"We don't know for sure. Could be rocket fuel. That stuff burns so hot and clean, there's never any trace left. You see, it's very difficult to prove arson. It's driving the insurance companies nuts."

_She_ and Beatty both chuckle.

"Well, that's about the only explanation that I can give you."

Which isn't one.

Time to get myself out of here.

"But there have been cases of pyrokinetics, people who can control and conduct fire," I can't help saying. Wish Scully were here.

"Well, I've seen fire bend around corners, seen it bounce like a rubber ball. Fire's got a certain genius, you know? A certain demon poetry." Demon is right. "It's like it's got a mind of it's own. But I've never seen one that can defy the laws of physics, not when you figure it out. You've, uh..." he glances at _her_ "...You've got quite a case for yourself here, Mulder. I almost wish I could be in your shoes."

_She_ looks at me and I look at _her_ and I know what it is she's trying to do.

She didn't forget.

Bitch.

XXXXXX

Day 2 December 7 – Tuesday

When I get to work the next day, Scully is already reading in the office.

"So, Sherlock, is the game afoot?"

Not this time. Not doing it. "I'm afraid so, Watson. But you're off the hook on this one."

"What do you mean?"

I thought about this all night. "I mean I'm not going to put you through this."

I pull out the file on pyrokinesis.

"Put me through what?"

I'm gonna have to tell her. Part of me is relieved.

"Phoebe's little mindgame."

"What are you talking about?"

Here we go. "There's something else I haven't told you about myself, Scully." I start looking for a file in the cabinet but I'm not really looking – I just want to not look at her. "I hate fire. Hate it. Scared to death of it." I still remember that night. I still have nightmares about that night. "When I was a kid, my best friend's house burned down. Had to spend the night in the rubble to keep away looters. For years, I had nightmares about being trapped in a burning building." They replaced the nightmares about losing Sam. The second time I betrayed her.

"Wait, and Phoebe knows about this?" She sounds scandalized.

She used to light candles when I slept over, insist on a fire in the fireplace. Just to keep me on my toes. And I always came back for more. "This is classic Phoebe Green. Mindgame player extraordinaire. Ten years it's taken me to forget about this woman, and she shows up in my life with a case like this."

"So she shows up knowing the power she has over you and then she makes you walk through fire, is that it?"

Something like that. "Phoebe is fire."

"Mulder? Are you sure you don't want me to help you out on this one?"

Nice of her. "Sooner or later, a man's got to face his demons," I tell her. Demon poetry. I have to go, have to get travel arrangements to Cape Cod.

XXXXX

The fax comes in while I'm arranging my car. Just a little report on a bar that burned up, but what catches my eye is where someone says a customer caught fire. They're still looking for a body. And it's in a suburb of Cape Cod.

I call Phoebe and arrange to meet her in the hospital there to interview the witness in the morning.

Just for fun, I don't tell her why.

XXXXX

December 8 - Wednesday

I meet her in the waiting room by the main entrance the next morning and show her the report. "I pulled this report off the wire last night. Eyewitnesses are saying that a customer in the bar caught fire but they're still looking for a body," I tell her. I checked again this morning.

"Any indication an accelerant was used?"

I sign in to talk to Elaine Kotchek. 28E it says. from the bar. "The bar's across the street from the fire station. It burned to the ground before they had a chance to even respond. The fire marshall said it burned so hot, it turned the concrete foundation into sponge cake. This was a woman who was in the bar."

I knock on 28E. "Hello?" It's open, sort of.

"Hello."

"Miss Kotchek?" She's the only one there.

"Yes?"

"I'm Special Agent Mulder from the F.B.I. This is Inspector Green."

I sit down in the chair by her bed. Phoebe sits on the other side. "Can you tell us what happened in the bar last night?" she asks.

"There was this guy. I'd had a few drinks, so... he sat next to me and he did this thing. It was like a magic trick where he lit his finger on fire."

Fun. I write it down. "Next thing, I turned around and he was up in flames."

"Can you describe him?" asks Phoebe.

"Good looking, I think. Brownish hair."

Excellent description.

"Long hair, short hair?" I ask.

"I've already given the police the information."

So? "Do you think you could work with a composite artist and come up with a sketch for us?"

"I said I had a few drinks..."

She's trying to get out of it. "Can I get your full name and address?"

"See... I live with someone. He thinks I was at school last night."

Wow. She's Phoebe.

"That's no problem. You can come down to the field office and work with somebody there. I'll give you a minute to think about it, okay?" I drag Phoebe out to the lobby to finish my notes.

"Deftly done, Agent Mulder. Casually disregard her indiscretion. A firm but polite manner until she accedes to cooperate."

I wish she'd shut up.

Part of me missed her, I admit that.

But mostly I wish she'd shut up.

"It's a technique I refined in my relationship with you," I tell her, just to be a jerk.

"Oh. Yes, well, I see you haven't lost your sense of humor after all."

Whatever. I'm bigger than her. "I'm sorry, that was a cheap shot. I don't want to dredge up the past. Let's just stick to the case."

"Let's." Good. She takes the pad away from me and walks away and I feel like a big jerk.

"Look, Phoebe, I..."

"Unless I'm mistaken, ten years seems like sufficient time to have forgiven, if not forgotten, a few youthful indiscretions."

I suppose.

I am a jerk sometimes.

"I'm cursed with a photographic memory," I tell her.

"And don't you tell me that you've forgotten a certain youthful indiscretion. Atop Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's tombstone on a misty night in Windlesham."

Yeah, I do. And she doesn't know what I saw when I went back on another misty night. She doesn't know I had an engagement ring. She doesn't know I was planning to stay in London. With her.

"Like I said, just stick to the case."

"Well, it occurred to me that we're going to a lot of trouble to find a description of a man who, in all likelihood, as been burnt to a crisp."

Not so fast. "I would agree with you but they haven't found a body yet." I walk back to Elaine's room. "So can we count on you?"

"Yeah, okay." Ringing approval. "I don't know if it matters but I remembered something else about the guy who caught fire. He had an English accent."

Huh.

XXXXX

I'm getting the impression that _Firestarter_ was not a big hit in the U.K.

Once we're out of the hospital, I ask her, "Remember those reports I told you about, about people who could control and conduct fire, pyrokinetic?"

"Faintly..."

"I think this guy just sent us a message that he's far more exotic." He freaking set himself on fire.

"I'd say so, I mean, he can set himself afire." She's so unlike Scully, I can't help but chuckle. "What?"

"I'm just not used to someone so quick to agree with me," I tell her.

"Oh."

"What kind of protection does the family have?" I ask her.

"The driver's a very capable bodyguard."

Pfft. "Well, he should look into getting a few additional men and limit public exposure."

We get to my car. "Oh, they've got a party being held in their honor tonight in Boston. They're going to have to cancel."

Unless... "Unless you wanted to set a trap."

"I had thought of that. But we must be careful and discreet. The party's at 8:00 at the Venerable Plaza. I'll be traveling with the family so why don't you go on ahead and have a look around?"

I suppose I could do that.

"Oh, and I've taken a room at the hotel for the night." Damn it.

XXXXX

I get my own room.

Down the hall from Phoebe's.

After I get to the room and the bellhop leaves my bags, the phone rings. "Mulder."

"It's Scully, where are you?"

What does she even need? She's not even on this one. "I'm in Boston."

"There's something I need to show you. I'm going to come up there."

How? And why? "What have you got?"

"I might have some information on the identity of your arson suspect." Why? How? "You there, Mulder?"

"Yeah, yeah..." What is she doing?

"Can I meet you somewhere?"

"No, it's just that I'm, I'm kind of anticipating having my hands full." I don't know what else to tell her.

Or what the hell I'm doing.

Or why I wish I hadn't gotten my own room.

XXXXX

The family arrives at 8.

She is with them.

I'm all tuxed out, and I think I look pretty good. I have some champagne, watch her walk around in a _gorgeous _dress meant to drive me nuts, and wonder what the hell I'm gonna do. The party drags on. I have no clue what's going on with me.

She finds me when I'm out in the lobby, waiting for some thing to happen. It's late now, after midnight. I've missed _Home Improvement. "_Enjoying yourself?"

"Good food, great conversation. I'm having the time of my life." I hate parties. But then she knows that. Knew that. Whatever. "I wondered if you'd think it's safe enough to indulge ourselves in a dance."

I've missed – not her, exactly. I've missed this. Touching someone, making contact. Dancing. "It doesn't look like your arsonist is going to make an appearance."

"That doesn't mean there won't be any fires to start." And then I take her in my arms. Playing with fire. "I've thought about you often."

And then she kisses me.

It's been a long time.

"There's a fire upstairs."

Scully? "What?"

"On the fourteenth floor."

No. "That's where the children are," says Phoebe.

"We've got a fire on the fourteenth floor!" Yells Scully.

I have to go. I have to save the kids. I have to do _something_ here. Something concrete.

So I run into the stairwell. I'm in good shape, and I make it up without a problem, but when I get to the door, I pause. It's a fire.

And I hate fire.

And I hate Phoebe a bit for getting me into this. And I hate myself for almost letting a huge mistake happen here tonight. Which may be why I'm opening this door now, and remembering the night Tyler's house burned down.

Tyler lived across the street, and the fire started on the first floor. And when his house burned down, he cried for help. And his screams sounded not unlike the child screaming now, down the hall from where I am.

I couldn't help Tyler. I wanted to.

"Help, help!"

I remember that night. And I remember the way the people came and tried to remove souvenirs from the rubble when it was all over. Tyler and I shared a tent. He treated it like an adventure.

I was awake all night, imagining the fire, my body turning to charcoal...

I can't move.

People are running by me. And then I'm moving, but God does my chest hurt. And then it feels better and I realize I'm wearing an oxygen mask and I'm in the lobby. And there is Scully.

And I'm woozy.

I think she helps me stand up, and I know there's movement. And then everything is black.

I wake up in bed.

Wearing only my boxers.

Scully is there.

My throat is killing me. She hands me a glass of water when I start coughing.

"You were really out."

Ugh. Am I safe? "Where's Phoebe?"

"She's down the hall."

Great. I hoped she'd go back with the Marsdens.

"How about the kids?"

"Okay, the doctor checked them out." Good. "What happened to you up there?"

I'm a wimp. "I panicked. I couldn't move, Scully."

"It could've happened to anyone."

Well, I'm not just anyone. "Yeah, but it happened to me. I hared out. Plain and simple." Nothing else to say and she knows it.

"What do you know about this guy that saved the kids? The driver?"

"I checked him out prior to the Marsdens' arrival." That would be Phoebe. "He's worked on the property for eight years. No record. His references checked out. They were lucky he was here tonight."

"Who was watching the kids tonight?"

"He was."

"Are you sure? I could have sworn I saw him down in the hallway about the same time that the fire broke out."

"He couldn't have. Anyway, the man we're looking for is English."

"Hey," I said. I close my robe when Phoebe looks over. No point in throwing gas on the fire.

"I came to see if you were okay."

Let's not go there. "How are the kids?"

"They're fine. Everybody's anxious to get back."

"To the cape?" I ask her.

"Only to pack. They've, uh, made travel arrangements to return to England the day after tomorrow."

Okay. Good. "And you?"

"I'll be leaving in a few days." Very good. "Look, I'll give you a ring back at the Bureau before I leave."

I don't care. "Right."

"Goodbye."

And then she's gone.

Really dodged a bullet there.

"You all right?" asks Scully. I put my feet up on the table.

"Yeah."

"You at all interested in what I came up here to show you?"

I can't help but smile. "Yeah."

She opens her briefcase. "Well, I did a little checking of my own. I didn't know a whole lot about arson or arsonists so I took the opportunity... for my own edification, of course." No. It wasn't. "I ran a profile of possible incendiary fuels and accelerants that could have been used in the crimes." She hands me a paper. "I also took the liberty of running a search through Interpol of all the gardeners, manservants and domestic help that were hired by the murder victims at the time of their death."

Good idea. "And?"

"And these people probably don't even tie their own shoes. There were over two-hundred names. And not a duplicate. Except one. A "Cecil L'Ively." He worked as a gardener for two of the victims."

Well that's good. "What did you find on him?"

"Nothing." I don't think she means nothing, though.

"So he's clean."

"Apparently, he was question by Scotland Yard and they released him but I dug a little further. Cecil L'Ively is a documented citizen of Great Britain, paid his taxes, never been on the dole, a model citizen until he died in 1971 in a London tenement fire." She has a little victory in her voice at the end there. "I know, that's what I thought. So, I checked a little further. Cecil L'Ively, spelled "L apostrophe," came up again. In fact, it came up twice. First, on a list of death certificates listed among a group of children who died in ritual sacrifice by a satanic cult in 1963 in the Toddingham Woods outside Bath, England."

Ooh. "Where else did you find him?"

"You're going to love this. On a list of recent visas issued by the British government. Cecil L'Ively's passport was stamped by U.S. immigration officials two weeks ago at the port of entry in Boston."

I need my clothes. We've gotta go find the Marsdens. Now. "Call the local field office in Boston of the F.B.I. and get them to fax to you the composite that the witness did of the man who burned down the bar and then get them to fax it to every local law enforcement agency in the area."

"What are you going to do?"

I hate to do this. "I'm going to try and catch Phoebe, this guy could be waiting for them in Cape Cod." I run to the bathroom to change, and then I run out the door after Phoebe, but she's not in her room. So I start driving to Cape Cod. By the time I get there, it's dark and I run into the house without knocking. For a second I think I might have walked into something between Phoebe and Sir Malcolm Marsden, but whatever. Who cares? Sir Malcolm walks upstairs and Phoebe comes back down. "His name is Cecil L'Ively," I tell her.

"Who?"

Who else? "Your arsonist. Where's the rest of the family?"

"They went outside for a walk."

Great. Just great. "Well, go find them. We've got to get them packed and get them out of here."

"Where's the driver?" asks Phoebe.

But we can't find him. The Marsdens haven't seen him.

And I know. And while I"m looking for him, I find a can of argotypoline in the garage. It was on her list. Damn my photographic memory.

Then there's a knock. "It's the driver," says Scully.

"I know. He disappeared."

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing, um... I found this out in the garage." I hand over the argotypoline. "It's been very hard on the family." Understatement of the century, Sir Malcolm just about hit the ceiling.

"Did you get the composite?" asks Phoebe, running down the stairs with Sir Malcolm hot on her heels.

"Yes."

Lady Marsden is still freaking out. "I don't believe it, I can't believe it. He's worked for us for over ten years."

'Well, obviously there's been some type of mistake," says Sir Malcolm.

And then Scully hands them the picture of the driver.

"Oh my God!" mutters Lady Marsden.

"This isn't the driver," Sir Malcolm tells us. "It's the caretaker!"

"And he's upstairs with the children!" finishes Lady Marsden.

We run upstaris and start yelling for the kids, and when we open a bathroom door, I find the missing driver hunched over a toilet and burned to a crisp. Scully comes in while I'm trying not to puke. "It looks like we found the missing driver."

"Mulder! In here, quickly!" We run into another bedroom – it's burnig. Or, more accurately, the drapes are burning.

"What's going on?" asks Scully.

"They just went up all by themselves."

The wall goes up, and the bed now. I try to smother the flames with a sheet, but I think they made that up. Typical yelling ensues. "Everybody out!" I shout in my most commanding FBI voice.

"Let's go, get out..."

We run out into the hall. "I think he rigged the whole house," I say, and I smell the sheet I'm carrying. Chemical. "It's fuel."

It catches fire. I drop it.

We run down the hall. "Scully, see if you can find a fire extinguisher," I tell her. "Everybody else, outside."

"But what about the children?" asks Lady Marsden.

There's only one thing to do. "I'll take care of the children. Go!"

"Are you going to be okay, Mulder?" asks Phoebe. Oh, now she cares.

"Oh yeah. I'll be fine. There's no place I'd rather be."

I hear a dog bark as I go upstairs. I follow the barking and yes, I am scared. And the door is locked. "Michael? Jimmie?"

I hear couging and start pounding on the door, but it won't open. "Time to call 911."

L'Ively. "Don't move!" I point my gun at him. He snaps his fingers and the hall explodes everywhere. L'Ively runs down the stairs but I think we'll just let Scully handle that. And yes, I am afraid.

But I keep moving anyway. I stay low and I get back to that door and then I knock it open and grab the kids and down the stairs and just like that it's over.

L'Ively is laughing in the yard, bursting into flames. And then I think something goes wrong – because he starts screaming and collapses.

Day 5 – Friday – December 10

When I get home there is a tape waiting for me in a messenger pouch. And I think about playing it. I think about it until - "Care to take me to lunch?" Sounds like Phoebe but when I look up I see Scully at the door, smiling. "Scare you?"

Thank God. "You have no idea."

"Where is Phoebe?"

Doesn't matter. "I don't know."

"You don't know? She didn't call?"

No. "No. She did messenger this to me last night though." I hold up the tape. And I know I won't listen to it.

"Did you play it?"

"No."

"Why not? Aren't you curious what's on it?"

Yes. And no. I know what's on it – and I'm done. "Ten-to-one, you can't dance to it."


End file.
